Temptation
by LePetitPappillon
Summary: There was hope for France. There was hope that some inspiration would blossom within the bare land that was his chest and some beautiful plant would begin to grow; a sun flower after a four month's drought.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur Kirkland glanced out of the foggy window, chin leaning into his palm and pen uninspired upon the desk. He was attempting to write but the words simply would not come. His notebook was blank, those demonic little lines hollering at him from the oaken surface below.

He watched his own brows crinkled inside the cloudy glass.

Oh, they were so thick.

Maybe you should write a poem about that.

Or maybe you should just go to bed. After all, Arthur, you're getting on a boat tomorrow and you're going to France.

For a moment, The English gentlemen thought. Well, he had been _thinking_, but he actually managed to focus. The reasons for his departure were searched for, throughout his entire mind, and not one of them could be recalled. Not a single one. It was as trying to pull a lost coin from a darkened well. His fingers were too stupid for the task.

So, instead of dwelling, as he had been the last several hours, Arthur Kirkland lit a cigarette, and watched himself in the window.

Messy blond hair. Deep green eyes, as a field untouched by man's sin. Hands beaten to death. Oh, and they were. One might think Mr. Kirkland was involved with building something or other, or had perpetually gotten into fist fights. However, he was an aristocrat and only got into a good and violent argument every once in a while; not so often as to mar those writer's hands.

He had been published before as well. A book of poetry entitled _The Contemplation of Life_, with his name written in pretty gold lettering right on the front cover, beneath the title. Arthur wrote plays as well, but there were so many of those naming them would be nothing but a hassle.

Each time one of his works was published, Arthur swelled with pride, despite whatever nasty reviews he might have gotten. It was not as though he was a bad writer; he simply lived beneath the scrutiny all poets and authors do. For every work, there are a hundred critics. That's what a friend told him when those hateful words were read.

A lot of people adored him.

And now it was time to see if the French would too.

Arthur had been practicing his _Français_ for the occasion. He had spoken it all his life, and had spoken to many a Frenchman, but he lacked the confidence to simply go there without brushing up whatsoever. When something is not used, one tends to forget. What was that word again? How do you say that? This language wasn't this strange beforehand.

On the first page of that horrendously bare journal, pretty French words had been written in fine cursive. That was the only thing Arthur had managed to write for the last four months, and it had only just been transcribed.

Four months didn't _seem_ like such a long time, when he thought about it. But when you're an author, not doing your job for one third of a year is shameful. Everyone kept asking what he was working on, as Mr. Kirkland usually wrote beneath a veil of mystery, but he had not an answer for them. They accused him of keeping the next greatest work to himself; he was keeping it a secret. Dear God, what he wouldn't give for that to be true. A secret play or maybe even a novel this time, the greatest one he had ever written kept beneath the white cloth for that very special day when it was finished.

But there was nothing beneath that sheet but a phantom. A mess of mangled bones, with the marrow drained from them, not even a single use for those remnants but to be remnants.

A great and weighty sigh passed from the man's chest.

This writer's block, if that's what it was, was a fatal disease. Maybe he should have checked himself into a mental ward instead. What will going to France do? Writer's block is writer's block. Whether it's in Paris or London doesn't really matter, does it?

No. Maybe not.

The ashes from his cigarette fell onto the empty page. They left little welds, the parchment churning beneath their heat. But now this empty book had character, with its scars and pretty French words. Now it was something more than a sad and barren thing. Now, it was a sad and barren thing with hideous tattoos and a grimace.

It's not like it would have been used anyway.

Arthur looked to the clock, ticking upon the wall, one of the many things he could not drag with him. It was one in the morning. The ship left at six. Then, he considered his scarred notes. Then, he considered his sheets, which looked rough and cruel, as though barbed teeth were sewn into the fabric. Harsh wires for threads. Sandpaper for filling.

He forced himself to lie upon the surface, as the comforting tick-tock lulled him to sleep.

Arthur did not dream. He hadn't dreamt in four months either.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur sat by the edge of that railing, looking out into the green and glassy water as the ship cut through it, a letter opener to helpless paper. The sky was grey that morning, as it usually was; however a few specks of light managed to tear through the depression within the air.

It was the very same within the Englishman's tired heart. There was hope for France. There was hope that some inspiration would blossom within the bare land that was his chest and some beautiful plant would begin to grow; a sun flower after a four month's drought.

That was the reason why he still carried that blank and now scarred book with him, clasped inside a gloved hand. The ocean might strike him with something ingenious. The sirens might come out and sing.

But after about an hour, Arthur realized how incredibly tired he was and managed to make his way back to the petit room he had rented. The space was miniscule, and even somewhat cluttered with another bed and another set of another's things. However, it would do, and it was better than having nothing at all. The trip was not so very long, but lugging around a past life was both exhausting physically, but mentally as well.

Mr. Kirkland had a place to sleep.

It was more than some of the others had.

A nap was taken without any dreams. It was a means of murdering time that would have been spend staring at the same sky and the same ocean that had been stared at well enough. One had to give the ocean a break as well. No one likes to be regarded for hours on end, even if that occupation is taken willingly. Besides, Arthur had casted enough of his all too weighty thoughts into the froth accumulating around that moving vessel. The entire sea would have been littered if he stayed.

As the troubled man closed his tried eyes, he wondered how long it was that his brain had been this way, bogged down with everything. There wasn't a real use for this odd depression, after all. Arthur should have been _happy_. England itself adored his works; it went to see his plays and devoured his poetry whole and told him how excellent it all was. It knew him and criticized him and gave him kisses upon the cheek when he dressed up nicely, and offered pretty compliments when that genius managed to shine.

Even after that brilliance seemed to dry up, it still adored him. England not only did that, but managed to suspect the best of him. The critical parts of it said he was taking his sweet time to create something truly worthwhile. The affectionate pieces said they couldn't wait for the next book of poems, or the next play, or maybe even an unexpected novel. England was so confident in him; it did not even consider the fact that he could have been washed up.

So why leave a place like that? Why go to harsh little France with all its snooty men and women, with its odd foods and strange smells and twisted language? Why leave behind an entire country behind that knew you so perfectly and for the most part enjoyed your company? For a new home with cold shoulders and a face that said, "_Qui es tu?_"

_Je ne sais pas._

Then it would laugh.

Maybe it would be healthy to start over. Maybe then, Mr. Kirkland could understand what exactly he was lacking in his art. It was so difficult to see your faults and your strengths when the world is saying a million different things about you. Was Mr. Kirkland a genius? Was he a no-talent hack with terrible characters? Was he Shakespeare? Was he John Donne? Was he Oscar Wilde?

_Qui es tu? _

_Je ne sais pas. _

Maybe starting on a page that was not burned by the ashes of a cigarette was a good idea. There were no real ideas of him in France. Maybe a few people knew his face; knew his name, knew his plays. But there couldn't be more than a few. Only _one_ of his numerous plays was translated in French, and that was the most popular and the most praised; the Englishman was still certain no one knew of it.

The ship came into contact with the rest of Europe only a few hours later.

And Mr. Kirkland was no longer Mr. Kirkland. He was _Monsieur Kirkland_ now.

_Monsieur Kirkland: Auteur et Poète. _

The man left the ship in a haze, not quite certain if he was truly dreaming or not, French and English running around in his head and crashing into one another. He made sentences in English with French words and sentences in French with English words. Then there were the sentences that were in a drunken kind of gibberish that the creator did not even comprehend. People spoke all around him in the same manner.

Oh God, what was he _doing?_ Arthur hadn't been to France in years.

Go home, you English bastard. You can't speak French.

But for whatever reason, those polished shoes made their way deeper into the rabbit hole, as the new language engulfed the foreigner. It began with a few people much like himself, who stood around in small groups and spoke to one another in that old mother tongue. Then, as Arthur went in deeper, those familiar syllables faded away and were replaced with heavier and heavier French noise.

Arthur found a train station and bought a ticket to Paris, trying his greatest to speak that old and unused tongue that they had taught him so long ago.

Somehow, he remembered. Arthur _had_ to remember; there simply wasn't that grand of a choice.

And after the Englishman, misplaced in his new country, got onto the train that would transport him to his new city, he glanced out the window he was given and watched as a great portion of France passed through that glass. He saw fields; he saw cities from a far away distance; he saw lights bathing in the black of the night sky. Arthur saw the place he could only recall, and listened as soft speak rose into the atmosphere. There was still English, and there was still French, and there was still a mix of either of them that was neither French nor English. Regardless, he understood most of what was said, and once again tried to rouse himself from what he assumed to be nothing more than a dream. But Arthur could not dream. That was the only way he could tell that it was truly real.

The trip had been planned for weeks, but still, some part of the man did not believe that the time had finally come. Always, this very date was looked upon with some kind of indifference, even the day before that voyage had hit. Yes, he was going to France. Yes. He was going to France. He knew he was going to France.

But knowing that one is going to France and actually _being _in France are two radically different matters.

For a moment, it actually felt as though the man was waking up. What he didn't truly believe would be a reality had become a reality in a mere few hours.

Arthur had done something reckless. He had run away to a new country for no _real _reason.

And it was the first time in those few months that Mr. Kirkland felt alive.

He was breathing.

He was breathing French air in a French train surrounded by French people speaking in low French.

Arthur inhaled deeply. 


	3. Chapter 3

After a week in Paris, Arthur Kirkland managed to find himself an apartment and a new bed. That was the only thing inside his apartment as well. No writing desk. No kitchen table. Not even a place to sit outside his bedroom. No; just an empty apartment and a new bed. Well, the bed wasn't even new. It was a bed that was bought from an older woman who lived alone and had no more use for it. Her husband had died; her children were all gone, and there were no guests to come visit. No one had lied within its sheets for numerous years.

But it was new to him.

So, when Arthur wasn't in his apartment, wondering what he should do about the grand amount of empty space, he was in a small café just outside that new home full of empty space, trying to decide what _to do_ with all the empty space. Oh, and He tried to write as well.

Arthur had done another reckless thing and bought yet another empty notebook. However, this article was not stained with age or the ashes of a disgruntled roll. It was new, and it was lovely.

This book was not black as the last one was; it was a happy orange color with a rose painted about its fresh visage, dew drops smiling against the blaring red petals. Where the other book was an old and nasty man, this was a gorgeous young woman; a virgin wearing a smile innocent of the world's follies and happy beneath her mother's roof. This was not a possession Monsieur Kirkland would normally keep. But a great part of him was so willing to start over; his tastes were compromised, but only to a degree.

The elder edition sat at the corner of his bed in that void room. The sun cooked it through the window and tanned its black leather hide an even darker hue.

And Arthur took his little virgin to the café, where everyone left him alone.

That was a perk. It was just as he thought. No one recognized his thick brows or his somewhat ruined hair, or his profound eyes filled with every thought he had ever considered. They took one glance at him, and never took another. There were no gaping mouthed lunatics studying each move he made. There were no young women blushing at him from across the room in any given location, trying to decide if they should gather the courage to speak. There was no one to stop him upon the street and say how much they loved or hated his work. There was not even the potential to get that far. No one asked him, "Oh, are you Arthur Kirkland? _The_ Arthur Kirkland? The author of all those plays? You wrote that poetry book, didn't you? What was it called again?"

Arthur didn't have to sigh so often.

That was _beyond_ pleasant.

Well, until one day.

Once again, the Englishman had sat himself at the table that was usually his, drinking tea and regarding his beautiful new treasure, still free of his heavy ideas. They agreed to let him stay, so long as he was drinking something.

And from the corner of his eye stood a boy, no older than twenty-one and no younger than eighteen. A notebook was grasped inside his nervous hands, and there was something of great importance ebbing inside his throat. Of course, this matter couldn't have been important to the one sitting down; Arthur Kirkland couldn't even _attempt_ to give a damn. But still, the child remained, staring into no particular direction and right at Arthur all at the same time.

So, the older turned to greet the younger.

"Excuse me." His English accent marred each French word he spoke. "Are you alright, young man? You've been standing behind me for at least two minutes now. If you need to say something, say it."

The thing was dumbstruck. "Oh, I'm sorry." He too, had an accent. But it wasn't an English one. "I just-I just wanted to ask you if you were Arthur Kirkland."

It took a very long time for the author to reply. "Well, you caught me."

"Truly?" The lovely blue gems of that curious intruder lit up right away, that entire face overcome with a certain fire only children possessed. "It's so great to meet you! I can't tell you how much I adore your poetry! I actually took a trip all the way to London to see a play of yours, and it had me hooked from start to finish! And to find you in Paris, of all places-Would you mind if I sat with you? I'm a reporter, you see- and an interview would be wonderful. That is, if you wouldn't mind-" The speed at which the young man spoke was nothing short of astonishing. What was even more impressive, if not as equally disturbing, was that this one-sided dialogue of his was entirely in French. He _must_ have spoken English, if he went to London to see _a play._

Arthur stopped the creature's rambling; it wasn't as though he actually had work to do. "Sure, if you'd like. I wouldn't mind answering a few questions, but I doubt I'm as interesting as you might assume."

"I think you're just being modest." The intruder sat down across from Arthur, and it was at that moment that the man began to look him over more thoroughly. This boy was well dressed, with neat blond hair and shined spectacles that sat just before lucid blue eyes. He looked intelligent, in the regard that he was well read and likely did very well in school, but also had an air of stunning naïveté. This person had not experienced much in life. He had not been damaged terribly; he had never been married and gone through the woes of divorce; he had never fought in a war or gone to the Congo; actually, this was probably his first time overseas all together.

Where was he from?

"Before we begin, I'd like to speak English…" Arthur poised his words gently. "That is, assuming you already do."

"Yes, I do." There was a grin and three little English syllables. Three _American_ English syllables.

He knew it.

The notebook the young man had been carrying was opened and a new page was prepared, as well as a handsome pen and rich black ink. A title was given to a page in the center of that notebook, the rest filled with what could be interviews with other such people. Or maybe poetry. Or maybe a play.

For a few burning seconds, Mr. Kirkland felt horrendously guilty.

"Well, let's start out with a simple question. What brings you to Paris?"

"Son, you couldn't have asked a more difficult question if you tried." Heavy green eyes rolled into the direction of the sky. "I can't possibly tell you why I'm here, to be quite honest. I think it has something to do with this goddamn writer's block. My brain must have thought that it was all London's fault, however ridiculous that sounds, and told me, 'Why Mr. Kirkland, you need to get yourself the hell out of here.' But I couldn't take myself to a new part of England; it simply wasn't extreme enough. I had to go somewhere with people I didn't understand, so I could speak a language that I hadn't _really_ spoken in years. With absolutely no friends." A big, twisted smile. "But that's only part of the reason why I'm here in lovely Paris. There's another part that I can't even put my finger on."

"I see." Numerous lines were jotted down in that well inhabited book. "Well, you said you had writer's block. What do you think was the cause of it?"

"I thought you said we were starting easy."

"I'm sorry." The boy's face curled up in murdered laughter. "I can ask that question later. Can you just tell me a little bit about yourself? Maybe about your past and your hobbies; what got you into writing?"

"Well, I can tell you that I started writing because I just wouldn't be alive if I didn't. Some men have terrible jobs, working in dull offices and attending to business and going home to ugly wives and bitchy children. I simply couldn't have my life go in that direction, for one thing. But that makes it sound as though I truly had a choice; I didn't. I have to write. It's my one true passion, despite the fact that very few people would describe me as a passionate man. My heart doesn't feel quite right when I don't have a pen in hand; when I'm not creating a play or poetry or really anything at all. It's like opium to me, writing…"

They regarded one another for a short duration, the opposite breaking his gaze to record what the man had only just told him.

"As for my childhood, I don't think it's all so important. I won't bog you down with the details."

"You can if you like."

"It's quite alright, sir."

Gazes met and a page was turned.

"Why do you say that you're not a passionate man, Mr. Kirkland? I think anyone who's ever read your works would argue with you."

The Englishman thought for a series of long moments. "I'm normal, I think. If you took away what little fame I had and my pen, you'd see just another gentleman with wild blond hair. Some authors use their opportunities. They go to parties and dance; they enjoy their celebration. But I haven't gone to a party in years, if you even count the last one _as _a party. We all just stood around and drank tea over awkward conversations." A slight curve of the mouth. "I'm so boring it's painful. A normal night involves a warm cup of tea and a book. There's no love making with strange women or fancy wine imported from France; I guess it wouldn't be imported anymore…Just Arthur Kirkland with mild tea and literature."

"But can't those things involve passion as well?"

"Goodness, no."

"But _why?_"

"_Why?_ How can they? When you perform the same act every night, it becomes boring. What passion does Ophelia have if she dies every evening? None. Hamlet's just stabbing people because it's what Hamlet does; there's no passion in it when it occurs so frequently. Unfortunate as it might be for Polonius."

"Would you say that's the reason you're having writer's block?"

"Addictions are different matters."

"But you're not writing anymore."

"Then I suppose this is rehabilitation."

"So you're unemployed?"

"All writers are unemployed, at least when they're not writing. It wouldn't matter if I spent six hours at my desk, doing just that. The moment I stopped, I might as well be the greatest bum in all of Europe."

All of this was written down.

"What's your name?"

"Alfred F. Jones, sir."

The green-eyed man paused to stare at his American counterpart. "Alfred, huh? You like to press buttons, don't you?"

"Perhaps. But isn't that something most everyone does?"

"Sometimes, yes." Mr. Kirkland gave an odd stare. "Are you going to ask me another question, or can I ask you one?"

"You can ask me a question if you like. I'm honored you're even interested." By the tone in Alfred's voice, one could tell that he genuinely meant what he had said. The younger was still somewhat star struck; he was simply ecstatic to meet Arthur Kirkland. It wasn't something that could be done every day.

"What brings you to Paris, Mr. Jones?"

"Well…I simply wanted to go out and see the world. I like to learn other languages and go see new things. Not to mention, it would be a great story, wouldn't it? Not many people have the opportunity to run away to France or China or Japan or any of those places. Of course, it's easier to travel to different places in Europe when you're living so near, but going to France can be more difficult from America, I think. It took me a few days to get here. How about you?"

"Nothing more than a few hours." Arthur thought a moment. "So you're a young boy with a terrible case of wanderlust?"

"That sounds just about right."

"I see." Those furtive green eyes studied their subject for a long moment. "Do you want to become a writer as well? I know you said you were a reporter…"

"I'd much rather be a novelist, sir. But at the moment, I'll take what job I can get. I write little stories for a local newspaper; sometimes I do studies on other cultures in general, something along the lines of special holidays or the amount of Immigrants coming into Paris. Sometimes, I have interviews like this when I talk to someone important or famous, and sometimes, I write about the most random of things. If a new shop opens up, or if an animal is found that can do something extraordinary, they'll have me go and see what it's all about. Once, I met a cat that could walk on its hind legs and play a song or two on the piano. The owners were trying to teach it to dance."

The opposite laughed. "That sounds like a charming profession."

"It gets a bit old after a while, but it can certainly be interesting." The page that had all of Mr. Kirkland's words written upon it was full. Alfred regarded his watch, then wore an expression of utter shock. "I'm sorry sir, but I have to go meet with my editor in about five minutes. Would you mind very much if I met up with you tomorrow? I'd love to bother you with more questions, but I'll be decapitated if I don't go."

"Of course. I understand. I come here almost every day, so if you arrive about the same time, you should be able to find me."

"Oh, thank you so much for speaking with me, Mr. Kirkland. It was an honor to meet you. I'll be sure to come back tomorrow at twelve sharp, and I'll have even better questions than I had today. It'll be far less impromptu; I promise."

"Don't worry about that, son. It's nice to meet someone who speaks English at all. My brain was beginning to weep from so much translating. I'm sure you know the feeling."

"That I do." The American child offered his elder a nod and was running down the street, yelling a grand "Thank you!" as he went, that pregnant notebook stashed beneath his arm pit with those well-shined shoes kicking up the dirt.

Arthur held a bit of mirth.

_Today I met a blond boy _

_A blond boy with a smile _

_Filled up in innocence_

_And eyes _

_Pure as the grandest sea _

Arthur closed his sherbet orange book and went back to that naked apartment.


	4. Chapter 4

It was twelve when the Englishman met up once more with that youth, who seemed to have all his thoughts gathered before he spoke. He could imagine him sitting up all night, pen in hand, writing down questions and scratching them out only moments later. That was stupid. Why should I waste that man's time?

Arthur would have been lying if he said he wasn't happy. Certainly, this boy was somewhat naïve, but he was pleasant to speak with. Better yet, his first language was English, and there was no need to struggle with those rotten French syllables he couldn't pronounce to save his damned life.

_Quoi? _

_Je ne comprends pas. _

It was nice to avoid that tangle. Mr. Kirkland felt that every time he walked away, someone was laughing at him.

But Alfred wouldn't do that.

When Arthur arrived, he found his interviewer sitting at the same table at the same seat as yesterday, his leg somewhat jittery and his gaze utterly focused upon the page where all his questions were written. He likely suffered from the same disease many writers do, when they are convinced their work is not good enough and must change it a thousand times over, until the original looks completely different from the final product. That is, if there even is a final product.

There seemed to be a lot of diseases a writer could suffer from. Writer's block, perfectionism, addiction, inspiration. Passion.

Arthur took his seat and offered a petit curve to the young man, who seemed to be pleased once again to see him.

"Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Kirkland. Did you have a nice day yesterday?"

"Yes, of course. It was very relaxing." Green eyes picked up the nervous movement of Alfred's fingers. "What' wrong? Did something frighten you before you came here?"

"No…It's just-well, yesterday I went home after my meeting and I thought about today until I went to bed, which was late simply because I couldn't sleep. I was convinced that I had been caught in a dream; I got to meet one of my favorite authors-in a café-_in France?_ I couldn't convince myself that it was real. But as the hours ticked away, I knew I wasn't dreaming because I wouldn't wake up. So, now I'm nervous because there's the possibility for me to do something absolutely stupid and I won't be able to just open my eyes and say, 'oh, what a disappointment, but at least I didn't truly do that to _Arthur Kirkland._' I'm not sure what I would do if I somehow convinced you to hate me."

"I don't think I'm going to end up hating you, Mr. Jones. You seem like a nice young man. I came back, didn't I? Listen, you're accounting for mistakes you haven't even made yet. Don't worry; not much can go wrong when you're just asking questions. I doubt you'll be able to offend me to the point where I'll up and leave. Believe me, I've had some bad interviews before, and judging from yesterday, this will be one of the better ones, so please, whenever you're ready we'll begin."

"Alright…Well, where do you get your inspiration from? Is there someone or something that drove you to write?"

Arthur thought a very long time. "You'd be surprised how often I got that question, and every single time there's just not a good answer. I think I draw my ideas from everything. For instance, I could be reading a story in a newspaper and get a great idea for a poem, or perhaps a play. The entire world is my muse. However, I do get a lot of ideas after reading books or going to the theatre, especially. Not because I steal their stories or anything; I would never do that- and I'm sure the version I wrote would be far worse. But they do inspire me to write and to become a better writer."

It was all written down. "Are there any novels or plays in specific that gave you your inspiration?"

"I really love Shakespeare. I think many of the better plays can be blamed on his influence. Other than that, it simply depends on what I feel like reading. Sometimes pulpy romance novels can provide just as much inspiration as Hamlet or Macbeth."

"So, would you say you enjoy Romance novels?"

There was a humored grin curving over Arthur's lips. "Sure I do. Sometimes, they simply hit the spot. Anyone who tells you they hate romance is nothing but I bloody liar. Romance appeals to all people, even old and lonely Englishmen like myself."

Alfred nodded and once again took the time to fill his journal. "Is there anyone in particular you would thank for your success?"

"That's a tough one." Seconds expired. "Not in _particular._ Just the authors who affected me so heavily. Just the plays that made me want to become a play write, I suppose. There are a lot of different things that I could say contributed to what I am today. It's even hard to pick out what the most basic of them are."

The pen scribbled against that happy white parchment, thick black cursive shining against a manila page. Mr. Kirkland felt a burn of slight jealousy.

Alfred paused.

"What is it, Mr. Jones?"

"I feel like the next question is stupid."

"Well, ask it anyway, and if we both deem it as stupid then there's no need to answer it."

"…Has being in love ever affected your writing?"

"With a person?" Arthur's face sunk into his palm. This only occurred when the man was in serious thought or creating something utterly genius. Oh, what a question to ask! "I'm sure it has. But I've been in love so few times it's truly difficult to say. However, to give you a much poorer answer, I could say I'm constantly in love. Just not with others."

A nod was offered. "Do you like music?"

And the interview went on and on and on, with serious questions, with silly questions, with questions that did not seem as though the belonged in an interview, but Arthur answered them all as best he could, trying to give the most honest and most interesting replies.

It was pleasant to talk; the Englishman was joyous to simply have someone so willing to listen. Moving to France had isolated him from friends, what few he had, and from a society that he could understand. Before Alfred had asked to speak with him, there was not much of a use for his English words and English thoughts and English presence. France didn't need him.

But perhaps he needed France.

Then again, perhaps he didn't. It could very well be a relationship of mutual hatred.

"Thank you so much for speaking with me, Mr. Kirkland."

"Of course. I'm glad we decided to meet up. You see? I think that went rather well."

"I certainly hope so. I feel like I'm going to go back home and suddenly realize that I said or did something ridiculous, but we'll see. That might just be part of being a reporter…" The notebook was scooped up.

"Are you leaving, Mr. Jones?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. They keep me constantly busy, if you can even believe that."

"Well, I still have to give you an interview."

The opposite stopped dead, his gaze full of fear and intrigue and rouge. "You want to interview me?"

"Isn't that what I just said? You're insane if you think I'm going to let the only English speaker in Paris run away. Besides, isn't it a courtesy? You've spent all this time asking questions about me and haven't even got to talk about yourself."

The younger did not know what to say, or how to react, but the sheer bliss was seen coming out of those gorgeous eyes in a conflagration. His entire crux had caught fire and the smoke went straight into his head. "Do you want to be friends?"

"We can be friends, if you'd like. When shall we meet here again?"

"Well! I'm going to be busy for the next few days, but I can come here again on Saturday." The poor thing was giddy beyond all belief. "We can meet at twelve again."

"That sounds quite nice." Arthur rose as well and offered his hand to the rattling American boy. "I'll see you at twelve o' clock on Saturday. Perhaps we can go somewhere else besides this snooty French café, but I'd still like to meet here."

"Of course!" That English hand was taken and given a fair shake. "Thank you!"

"No, thank you, Mr. Jones. I hope they can go a little easier on you. You're a nice young man."

"And I hope you can destroy your writer's block. I'll be devastated if you stop writing permanently."

Either of the men said their goodbyes, and Arthur Kirkland was left to stand and watch as that happy child went running away once again. It occurred to him that Alfred had stayed as long as he could without getting in a world of trouble, an act inspired of admiration.

A warm spot came to his icy heart.

Look, Mr. Kirkland. Someone _does_ like you.

_And I saw that boy again _

_Convinced his heart_

_Was made of sugar _

_And his veins _

_Held nectar _

_How lucky am I _

The Englishman went home, and sat upon the elderly sheets of his elderly bed. But his shabby apartment no longer seemed to be as shabby.


	5. Chapter 5

Fine attire ate up his chest, while all that radical blond was subjected to the horrors of a comb. That is not to say that the author never combed his hair, _but_ the author never combed his hair. Then, Arthur traveled outside and found himself taking a long walk along the streets, regarding all the shops and the French faces and listening to the words as they drained from the mouth of every bustling town member.

He had not gone too far out from his home. The shops were seen once. They were nodded at. He moved on. But today was a day of exploration. It was time for the reclusive poet to get outside and breathe fresh air; not the stale atmosphere his god awful apartment had to offer.

The people at the café were getting a little sick of him as well, and he was even sicker of them.

This was a good vacation for all those involved.

So, instead of sitting at that table and drinking poor tea while staring into the blank expression of his sherbet notebook, Arthur decided to go to the park and stare into the blank expression of his sherbet notebook, which seemed to get a little tired of the frequent interrogation.

After all, she was doing her job, was she not? That Goddamn Brit even shoved two entries into her graceful body. Why could he do nothing else but brood at her lack? She was trying. And they had produced some fruit from so much labor.

The poor girl didn't even have a name yet.

The other journal had a name.

Walter.

No wonder why the man had nothing good to record. Who could while communicating with a thing named _Walter?_ Walter made progress go backward. Walter got burned by cigarette ashes. Walter held scribbles lining every first page. Walter was _ugly._ And not only was Walter ugly, but Walter was mean as hell. Walter liked to shout at Arthur from across the room in his gruffest voice, demanding to be picked up and put to work. Walter never left poor Arthur alone. Walter was bitter and old and angry. And now Walter had a grimace made by the ashes of something far handier.

She almost felt bad for her owner. It was all Walter's fault, and that was obvious.

She would do a better job.

She would _earn_ a name.

Unlike Walter.

Arthur landed at a park bench, grassy green eyes sinking into the earth. Goodness, it was such a lovely day. The man had forgotten it was spring. But how could he be ignorant to such a fact? The flowers were dancing about; the children were joyous and playing. The women were wearing their brightest of colors and the sun cast a grand smile to all those willing to bear witness to it. It was a wonderful day, and not even the worst of things could ruin it.

Someone could _die_ and Arthur wouldn't give a damn.

A contented sigh and gloved hands running against the gorgeous face of that journal. The rose upon that front was so very suitable today. Perhaps he would write a poem about it. Perhaps. The last two even seemed a little forced. Had he finally lost his touch? Was Arthur heartbroken without even knowing it?

It could have been that his heart was never _really_ broken. No one had scorched him with the flames of love; only the flames of criticism, which was hardly the same affair. He had not gone off on a ship to elope with some gorgeous thing named Elizabeth far, far away. Nor had he sunk into the charms of a blond fairy named Cecile. There was no Marie, no Rosanne, no Emily, no Florence.

But that was a good name; Florence…

Florence the journal, with colors like sunset for flesh.

You need to get out more.

I know.

Yesterday, just before Arthur tucked himself in, he made a promise that he would taste Paris. That sour body would go outside and eat up the fresh air. He would speak French. He would drink fine wine. He would eat this French life like a croissant, layered in cream. It was what should have been done in the first place, after all.

What sane person goes to France and sits in their apartment all day, talking to imaginary creatures named Walter and Florence? The greatest thing the so called poet had accomplished was conversing with an American baby, whose French was probably much better than his own.

Arthur was too old to be a young man and too young to be an old man. It was quite the predicament, but usually he went with the elder part of his personality. There was less trouble. It was easier to do work and avoid predicaments and avoid the insults Walter threw from his ruined pages.

But today, he was going to be young. Today, he was going to listen to Florence. Today was going to be his, however ordinary or extraordinary it was. That didn't matter. Because today, April sixteenth, belonged to Arthur Kirkland, God damn it. And he was going to do something _fun._

So, after about half an hour of letting the emotions stew within his brain, Mr. Kirkland rose from the bench and marched back into town, wasting no time in finding a theatre and buying a ticket.

He was indeed a play-write. And play-writes should go to plays. It's where they belong. It's where they feed and grow and feed other play-writes with their plays. In short Arthur needed to bring the theatre back into his life, even if he couldn't understand a damn word of it.

It was better than going to bed without anything to think about.

Alright, so he had made himself a friend, but that was yesterday.

Arthur needed something for _tonight._

And that thing sat within his fancy palm. But then he realized he might drop it and shoved it into Florence's cover page, that glad notebook cradled gently at the bend of his elbow.

He still couldn't write, but something within him felt several times better. A seedling was popping up from what was thought to be dead ground. The sun had finally peaked from the oppressive clouds and the swollen haze was finally drifting away.

These things happened slowly; but they happened.

Anything was an improvement to the coffin the Englishman had stuffed himself into.

It's good to see that you're feeling better, Mr. Kirkland.

Thank you, dear.

Romeo and Juliet tonight.

_French Shakespeare. _

Who wouldn't be excited for such a thing?


	6. Chapter 6

The theatre was so gaudy it was almost comical. The gold frame set around the stage, the half-dead flowers all about the room, the seats made to look far nicer than they actually were. What gold there was had been gilded. But Arthur Kirkland was certainly interested.

Oh, he just had to see _this._

The Englishman had taken a seat in the very front row, just before the grand foot of stage. Arthur enjoyed being near to the actors and actresses, who had worked so very hard to get the correct facial expressions and outfits, it would be insulting to take a spot in the back, where none of that could be seen at all. Arthur did not come to watch one purple blob dance with a red blob. He came for Romeo and Juliet. Well, _French_ Romeo and Juliet.

Perhaps he would have been happier in the back this time. But then again, this seemed far too interesting. It was worth the price in the other regard; that it might be so horrendous it was the most brilliant play ever preformed on stage. This had the potential to be so bad, every moment would be entertaining.

Poor, poor Shakespeare. Probably rolling in his grave.

The curtain pulled upwards, and after a few announcements and a thank you from the man who owned the theatre, the show commenced.

Arthur was hardly surprised at the quality of it. However, all the actors and actresses were outshined by whoever they had gathered to play Romeo. Oh, he was beautiful. The man stole the entire show and would not allow anyone else even a piece of that prize.

While the rest of the troupe was shabby and awkward, this man was smooth; the perfect representation of what a Romeo should be like. Arthur could not even comprehend what he was saying half the time, but that did not even matter. He was so very captivating and such a fantastic actor, there were moments when Arthur had to remind himself that he was indeed not in Italy; he was in France, being taken hostage by a gorgeous man he had never even met.

This Romeo had a perfect face. Alabaster flesh, with rose-bud lips of happy rouge and sapphires captivating as the stones themselves. A mess of gold sat about his head, extending from his scalp to the center of his neck, with the same color hair making an appearance at his jaw line. Not to mention his perfect build. One could tell by only seeing him once that Romeo looked attractive in any outfit he wore.

Even if that outfit was nothing at all.

Oh lord, Arthur was moved to tears. When that angel took his death upon the stage, an all consuming sadness possessed the man who spent so much time writing characters for actors such as this. For Romeo, who went through the worst of tragedies.

Arthur regarded the man, in his death, those cerulean sights gone cold and that handsome mouth gaping in an innocent stupidity. Romeo was staring directly at him, but regarded nothing at the same time. This is what a dead man looked like. An actor made to look like an autopsy.

When the production was over, the poet was lost inside his seat, staring up at the fallen curtain while noise and laughter leaked through it. It was bright red, and that gaze could not be drawn from it.

Arthur had tasted opium for the first time. 

"Excuse me, sir?"

Finally, the Englishman casted his attention to something other than the wrinkles within that gigantic red fabric.

"One of the actors has invited you back stage, if you'd like to come."

"Why is that?" Arthur hadn't done anything special; he had merely remained long after the play had concluded.

"Well, he said he recognized you." Arthur was fighting through the French, trying to decode every last syllable. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're Monsieur Kirkland, aren't you?"

Oh, yes. He _had_ accomplished something.

"I'll go." The man stood up and walked with the young woman who had roused him from that odd dream, and went into an even stranger one. The Englishman was introduced to a mess of actors and actresses, removing make-up and speaking amongst one another, drinking an assortment of wine that was likely gifts from fans, and laughing through all of it.

They moved through to the very back corner of that area, which was connected with a hallway of types, and a door was opened for the poet to enter through.

"He's in there."

And the insect fell into the web, willingly.

At first there was no sight of this man, whoever he was, only a room full of lovely blooms and a shined mirror. This was a chamber used for dressing, and quite likely the nicest one this shabby theatre had to offer. It was even less of a train wreck than the entirety of the place; the gold did not look nearly as gilded and it was kept rather tidy for being such a small area with so much to hold.

They had even given him a sofa with flowers embroidered into its hide. How nice.

Then, the door opened once again, and Arthur turned around to find that beautiful man who was just displayed against an unconvincing background. Oh goodness, those eyes glowed. That helpless thing was captivated a second time and there was not a damn thing that could be done.

This _homme_, whoever he was, was even more beautiful up close. Those details only seemed to come more strongly and were even harsher than before. Beating poor Monsieur Kirkland over the head, relentless and holding.

Before any words could be spoken, that perfect creature was taking his guest's hand and offering the warmest of smiles. Two kisses dabbed upon burning cheeks.

"Oh, Mr. Kirkland, it's so nice to meet you. Thank you so much for coming back stage. I have to tell you, I love every single one of your plays. I think you've even written more of them than I've been in." He spoke in English.

_He spoke in English._

"Oh, surely that can't be true. But I'm flattered, none the less." The man was nearly unconscious, wobbling upon his feet like a drunk cast into the night. Maybe tomorrow, they'd find him dead in the street somewhere; an overdose. "Oh-what's your name?"

"_Francis Bonfeuille._"

A shimmering name for a shimmering god. "Well, Monsieur Bonfeuille, I must say that your acting is probably some of the best I've seen in quite a while, and that's truly saying something. I've been to a great number of plays and I so rarely see a talent like yours. You had me convinced you _were_ Romeo."

"_Vraiment?_ You're not only saying that are you?"

"Goodness, no! I'm not a man of false words, even if I am good with them."

"Oh, thank you. That means so much coming from you. Would you mind very much if I asked you a few questions? It's just-you see Monsieur, so rarely do I get to meet the men who write the plays I'm so dedicated to. The moment I saw you in the audience, I knew I couldn't waste this opportunity; it would be stupid of me _not_ to bother you. If I didn't, I would go on living every day wondering what could have happened instead of knowing. I figured that if you became upset with me that would be better than having you slip away. At least then, I would have got to meet you, _Tu sais?_"

"Yes, I can understand that."

It was exactly the same on the other side of that strange wall. But at least Arthur could return. No. He _would_ return. There was no choice now.

"May I ask how you learned English so well, Monsieur Bonfeuille? I've tried to review my French and I can't remember a damn bit of it, and I live here now. Is there a secret I've failed to figure out?"

"_Mais non_, Monsieur Kirkland. I've simply spent so much time reading your plays; it's become easier for me. It's simpler to keep your languages sharp when you read or listen or speak. Don't worry; your French will become better. How long have you been here, anyway?"

"Only about a week or so. A little longer than that, I believe."

"You see? You're not even giving yourself a chance. That's not any time at all. You know, I've been to England as well; just recently too. I got to practice for two solid weeks. Maybe I won't be able to speak as well anymore in a few months. I think we should work together. I could speak English and you could speak French."

Francis' smile knocked Arthur right on his ass.

"_D'accord_." That was all the man could manage. His memory had been broken, hopefully only temporarily.

"Well, alright then. Why don't you tell me why you came to France? I have to admit, you're a bit out of place."

So Arthur went into his story, answering the questions that gentle Frenchman slung at him in his own language, laced in innocent white frills and caught between a handsome set of lips. They spoke for hours, Mr. Kirkland's _français_improving bit by tiny bit with the other nodding his head of full blond hair.

And after that, after that Bonfeuille had given Arthur tickets for the next night, and after almost two hours had passed, and after it was time to go home, the foreigner was given a kiss against either cheek once more and sent back with veins full of adrenaline and a visage drowning in saturated rouge.

When the author arrived to his shabby apartment, he sat down at the edge of his bed and opened his book and wrote.

For the first time in four serious months he wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. Until it was four o'clock in the morning and the night was slowly draining from the sky. Until the sun peaked from behind the trees and ate up the pall that used to be the evening.

Then he fell unconscious.

Arthur had not even realized how tired he was. 


	7. Chapter 7

The man, after having stayed up so late the night before hand recording his genius, woke up later in the afternoon and prepared to see Francis Bonfeuille's next fantastic play. Today, they were performing another piece by William Shakespeare, and Arthur was horrendously excited. It was no longer the French rendition of _Romeo and Juliet_, but the French rendition of _Hamlet_. And seeing Francis play such a tragic character two nights in a row might drag his eyes to tears. But how different they were; Romeo and Hamlet, yet they shared such a similar fate.

Francis was a million men in one.

The play-write found his reserved seat, and waited patiently as the theatre filled and more noise came into the atmosphere. Women and men, conversing of life and money and literature, sound in the most romantic language on earth.

Then, the curtain rose after what felt like the longest half hour of Mr. Kirkland's dull life, and _Hamlet_ began. From Danish to English to French, yet, all the emotions were in the translation. The anger, the hatred, the sorrow.

Poor Hamlet.

Poor Francis.

Arthur watched, leaning forward in his seat, lip slightly hanging at that blond man who had made him write once again. Francis conveyed all the pain that dear Prince felt within his heart. It was so tragic to see such a spectacle dressed in the black of mourning and wear such a constant dismay, as though he truly had lost a father, and had his uncle marry that once venerated mother.

Francis painted the most beautiful of pictures. A tragic art bathed in faux blood. It was only red paint. It was only a play. It was only a Frenchman pretending to be English pretending to be Danish. It was only a night.

A grand emotion welled up within Arthur's chest. It was not sadness; not entirely, but it was _something_. Admiration, perhaps? Who could know such a thing?

And when that performance ended, and dear blond Hamlet lay dead in the center of the stage, everyone cheered. And when the applause died, quickly as Hamlet did, the misplaced Englishman was asked to come back stage once more. Monsieur Bonfeuille wants to see you. Yes, again.

So, as the child to the jar of honey with a silver spoon, Arthur came to his prince and was immediately given two kisses on the cheek. He could not explain why this affection was given to him. He could not even understand why within his own mind. But there was not going to be any complaining, even if he would usually throw a tantrum over such a thing.

"Oh, you came back!" Smooch. Smooch. "I was so worried you would run away. Maybe you would have decided that you didn't want to do the same thing two nights in a row, but now you're here and I'm very pleased." Smooch. Smooch.

Arthur laughed. "How could such a thing happen? Anyone who saw your performance only once would have to return a second, third, and fourth time. Into eternity. If not, they're only philistine fools."

A happy curve; so happy, Arthur could not believe it.

"I don't want to be a pain, Monsieur Kirkland, but I'm not going to stay here for very long. I was going to go for a lovely evening stole, and I want you to come with me."

The man looked as though he did not know what to say. As though Jesus himself had fell from heaven and asked him to accompany him back. A part of his logic spoke quietly. It was ridiculous that you like this man so well. You've only known him a few hours, and already, you're attached like a flea to a mangy dog.

But the other parts of him could not muster enough sense to give a damn.

"You want me to come with you? Why?"

"Because, silly. We're going to be the greatest of friends. You'll see."

That one really got him.

"I've only just met you, Monsieur."

The angel did not speak at first, merely pursed those pretty lips and thought a very long time. "Well, you may have just met me, but I've known you for years. It's like meeting someone you've looked up to for so very long. You've heard their opinions and you've seen their creations, and quite slowly you've fallen in love. I know you adore Shakespeare. I know you can't stand the younger generation. I know you have quite a bit of passion for writing, and all that is very admirable. Even if you don't know a damn thing about me, a lowly little actor in Paris, it means a lot to meet you."

Dumfounded.

"I know. I figured I should try to be you companion. Because if I let you go, I would spend the rest of my life in regret. The time I met Arthur Kirkland and didn't bother with becoming truly acquainted. Don't you think it would be stupid of me not to invite you?"

"Well…I don't think you'll like me as much when you do get to know me. I'm rather plain, you know. Maybe you'll wonder why you did bother with inviting me. I doubt I'm the person you want me to be, Monsieur Bonfeuille. You might prefer the fantasy version."

"_Non. Tu es beau_." Another peck to that intoxicated cheek. "I'm certain of that much."

Arthur Kirkland. Beautiful? This was not real. The man with shaggy blond hair and a dull wardrobe and brows thicker than molasses-handsome? _Handsome?_ The author, the play write, the poet. None of them could muster a damn word.

"_What?_"

Well, there was one.

"I meant what I said. You're _beautiful_. And I've loved you for a very long time."

"How am I _beautiful?_"

A puffy sigh, full of play and topped off with a knowing smirk. Francis' fingers traced that clean chin, a quick caress. "Only a fool would say that you weren't."

"The worlds if full of fools."

"No, no. Now you listen. You have strange features, and you pout too much, I've noticed. But once someone glances into your eyes, they have to see it, or they're simply dull. You're so intelligent, and there's such passion in your soul, I'm surprised you haven't gone and exploded. Then, all the other things make sense. I can understand your eyebrows and the dent in your mouth; it all works together perfectly. I can't explain how, but that's what it is."

Arthur's mouth had never been drier. Never had his tongue been so decrepit and broken. It felt like the entire thing was curling into a ball and would never work again. He would go through the rest of his life as a mute just because of the things an attractive Frenchman had said to him.

A great heaving breath.

He had to gain his composure somehow.

"Now I've gone and upset you, Monsieur. I'm sorry. Would you like to leave? I won't be upset if that's what you need."

"No- I mean. I just don't know what to say. No one had ever called me beautiful; much less told me such kind things…I'm dumbstruck."

"You can't be dumbstruck. You're Arthur Kirkland. Now, I'm going to collect my things, and we're going to leave. Maybe you'll even let me take you to my home and allow me to show you my art collection. You know, I like to paint too."

"You're an artist?"

The man laughed. "You knew that before I had to say it myself. Actors are artists too."

But Francis was so convincing, he couldn't even be called an actor. The man who he was upon the stage was not the same one he was inside this tidy little room. That Francis was tragic, miserable. That Francis was not acting. That Francis had gone through all the pains of Romeo and the trials of Hamlet and all the trouble of all classical heroes. But this Francis, no. He was certainly not an actor. That much was horrendously clear.

So, they took their walk and spoke, the Frenchman once again doing all the talking. Arthur could hardly formulate thought fast enough to answer all the questions that were being slung at him. Then, Arthur and his sudden and devoted companion reached a door in the center of that gorgeous city, rose bushes lining the steps leading up to the portal.

"Wait…"

"What is it, Monsieur?" Francis was removing his keys from the pocket of those handsome pants.

"I-I don't think I have enough time to visit. Actually, I have to be getting home soon. I have some business to attend to and-" It's so obvious; these lies. "I'm sorry…"

"Well, it's alright. Perhaps you'll allow me to show you all my paintings at another time. I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"

"No! Not at all."Arthur was running out of fake words, and beneath the gaze of those sapphires, it was difficult to tell a convincing untruth without seeming like an utter liar.

A few seconds came when the man thought about why exactly he could not cross the step of Francis' home. Perhaps this was moving too quickly. He had only just met this man. For all Arthur knew, he could be insane, collecting the skin of authors and using their blood for pigmentation and rouge. Drinking up their life to take their inspiration. Maybe that was why he was such a fantastic actor. He was behaving the way those poets had intended, right to the bare glances and posture.

Wait.

You can come back later.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize so much. I understand. I should have asked first." Those steps were descended and another kiss landed upon the man's visage, where each of the others had been. "Good-bye, _mon écrivain_. I hope you have a lovely day tomorrow."

"Thank you. I hope you have a lovely day too."

A nod, and the gorgeous man had disappeared, likely far more hurt than he was letting on.

Arthur felt a guilt building up inside his intestines, causing him to bend over backward and writhe. This was ridiculous.

Then, he went home.

And wrote to another dawn.


	8. Chapter 8

Before Arthur even knew it, Saturday was banging down the door and his appointment with that American boy stood aside it. He was once again exhausted. The day beforehand was not spent with the Frenchman, but it was indeed spent writing. Arthur sat at that little café and filled Florence with all his greatest ideas, of life and love and tragedy.

She was happy. He was happy.

It had been a while since that nectar was taken. Joy really seemed to be something of a rarity for the Englishman and to have so much of it in such a short amount of time was simply heavenly. Arthur didn't know what do, even.

So, on Saturday, he arrived at the agreed spot, ten minutes late with his hair even messier than it was usually, carrying nothing but himself.

Alfred looked at him strangely.

"Hello, Mr. Kirkland. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, better than alright, actually. I've been writing again."

"You have? That's fantastic!" The boy smiled widely. "Do you think I can read some of it? That is, if you want my opinion. If not, I understand. I would never let anyone read anything of mine unless it was finished, sometimes not even that."

Arthur thought for a moment of the first two poems written within that gorgeous little book. How they were about the one he was glancing at, at this very second. Then he realized what a waste of paper it was.

"I'm sorry. I'm of the same mind set. But I'll allow you to read it once it's done, before everyone else. Actually, I don't even know if I can get my poetry published here. I doubt that the French would want to read anything written in English."

"Oh…Perhaps not. You might have to go back to England if you want it your work published." But to reassure his companion, Alfred gave a warmed grin. "But it's so good to hear that you're writing again."

"Yes. I've been feeling well. At first, I wasn't sure if coming to Paris would truly fix anything, but now I can create poetry again. This might have been one of the greater decisions of my life."

The opposite did nothing but wear his simper, not certain of what else to say to this man. A few seconds past as Arthur wondered why he had returned. He did not need two friends. He already had one with the goodness of two. Francis was his lovely friend, as well as his kind friend.

This little American child was sweet, and perhaps even somewhat cute, but the Englishman could not figure out why he was here. If he wanted to have a puppy he would have bought one by now.

Oh yes.

He was going to hold an interview.

But he had prepared no questions.

"Oh, I'm sorry Alfred…I just remembered I was supposed to be asking you questions, but I haven't written any. I've been such a mess lately between writing and going outside, I had completely forgotten."

"That's alright, Mr. Kirkland. I understand. When I first arrived in Paris, I couldn't get anything done either. I spent my first two weeks exploring and then I finally figured out that I had to get myself a job. But in those first fourteen days, everything was just a haze. I was wondering around aimlessly, just drinking up the beauty if this place. Please, it's nothing to be concerned of."

"Well, thank you for your understanding, but I shouldn't be allowed off the hook. Perhaps I should simply ask you impromptu questions? Oh, I didn't even bring my notebook…"

"You don't have to write anything down if you don't want to. I know I'm not very important."

"Nonsense. Who would report about dancing cats and strange authors if it wasn't for you? No one. You're a cardinal piece to the newspaper, Mr. Jones."

Laughter. "Well, thank you, sir. Have you got to read my story yet? About a week ago I met a man with one leg and one arm, and I got to interview him as well. It was quite sad, actually. Life was such a hassle for him. But anyway, that's in there, if you want to read it. Actually, I have a copy with me right now."

Alfred dug into his a small black portfolio of sorts that was left upon his chair and pulled away a fresh paper, the news print cheap and the parchment itself quite thin. But it was alright. Arthur remembered a time when his work was published on such a paper, perhaps even worse.

Weekly Poetry by Arthur Kirkland.

What hungry times those were.

They had actually fired him.

The paper was handed to the writer, who looked it over thoroughly, the front page containing a murder case and a story about a local effort to help unwed mothers. It was a very short edition, but somehow, Arthur could appreciate every page. It was nostalgia.

"I'm on page three, if you want to read it a bit later."

"Thank you. I certainly will." A pause taken for thought. "Alfred, would you like to go on a walk? It's a lovely day today."

"I would love to. Actually, I was going to ask you the very same question."

"Well, it's agreed, then."

Either of the men left that little café and found their way into the greater part of the city, wondering into the park and regarding all those around them at the same time. Alfred cast his glance to the man who had inspired so much within him. He did not say it, but that week's article was written especially well, because Alfred wanted so badly to impress his new friend. _Look, Mr. Kirkland! I can write! Isn't this an interesting story? _

But the author was stoic, trying to think up decent questions to ask the American. It was nice to be able to use English without feeling like a moron. Whenever he was in Francis' presence, he felt it was an insult not to use that romantic tongue. There was no need to prove he was a genius to this boy.

"Tell me about yourself."

Those words came as something shaped as a command. They were not intended to be so forceful, but they nearly had to be scraped from the green eyed man's buds.

"Well. I'm not sure what to say. Do you want to hear about my hobbies or my childhood or…"

"Anything at all. Whatever you think is important."

"I grew up in Boston." They walked into that grassy field, well shined shoes crushing blades of unfortunate grass. "For a long time, I studied poetry and plays and all sorts of literary things. I've always loved books and had an interest in other languages, which is why I started to learn French. To be honest, it wasn't truly my first choice; I wanted to learn an Asian language perhaps, but I was told to begin with something that was close to English, and I ended up really enjoying _Français_…"

"Was it difficult to find a job here, since you're writing in a language that isn't your first? I'm not quite sure what I was thinking. No one would publish English poetry in a country where not a damned person would understand it."

"Well, at first it was. But once I spent some time here, I really started to pick it up and it was much easier to get a job after the first two months or so. I had spent so much time studying in school, but it's simply not the same thing actually being here. They didn't tell me I would sound like an idiot, but I guess that's something everyone goes through when they first learn a new subject. An hour or so every few days couldn't compare to coming to France…So the writing wasn't nearly as difficult as just getting my foot in the door."

"I see." Arthur, in his mild distraction, regarded the sky.

"How is your French doing, Mr. Kirkland? Have you been having an easier time in getting around?"

"Yes, I suppose I have. But I honestly haven't had nearly enough time to really speak _well_. I can sputter out whole sentences, but I always get stuck in places and mar at least a few words. I think they find me funny; these French people. But I don't blame them. If someone came up to me and made a thousand different grammatical mistakes in English, I think I would get a good laugh from it as well."

"Don't worry; you'll get a hold on it. One day, you'll be standing in the middle of a busy street corner and then, someone will say a few words to you and won't even have to translate them in your head. You'll just understand perfectly. That's what happened to me."

"And how long did that take?"

"Just about six months…"

"And how long have you been living here?"

"Just about two years."

"Right. There's no hope for my ass then. I'm not even certain if I can stay that long. I left all my things back in London…Oh, what was I even thinking, coming here? I'm only going to manage to get myself in trouble."

"Don't say that, Sir. There's a real purpose for you to be here. You might not know what it is, exactly, but you'll certainly have a fulfilling experience of some kind. It will be worth it. You might look back to all you adventures in Paris and say, 'well, I don't know why I had them, but they were great.' You said you could write again, didn't you?"

"Yes, I can."

"Then, there you are! You already know why you came here."

"It seems to be far more complicated than that. It was certainly one of numerous reasons, but not the only one." Those great and heavy brows furrowed. "You know, let's not worry about these things. I'm supposed to be asking you questions. Tell me what your favorite color is. Your favorite city. You know, all of those things."

"My favorite color?" The American regarded that poor man at his side, so tormented by writer's block and possessing inspiration at the same instance. He was a genius. And here he was, just before Alfred, demanding to know what his favorite color was.

A favorite color.

What a useless bit of information.

This great man must truly care about having a companion.

"I have a lot of favorite colors. Red and blue are two of them. I also like Green, and even yellow. Happy colors. How about you?"

"Red."

"Only red?"

"That's right. Only red."

So they asked one another of favorite colors and favorite flavors and favorite buildings and favorite people and favorite everythings, all while walking around in a small sort of circle. Then, Arthur told the boy he needed to be getting home, for they had murdered at least an hour and a half in the park, and it was time for the serious man to go back to his serious work. After all, four months of lost time had to be retained.

So, Alfred walked the elder man back, admiration sitting in his eyes for every fragment of his most favored Author.

"Mr. Kirkland, will you read my article?"

"Of course I will, Alfred. I said I would."

"Alright…And when you do, will you tell me about what you thought? I mean-how good it was, you know."

"If you'd like me to, but I'm certainly no master of French. However, I'll try very hard to give you a fair opinion, if it means so much."

"And, if I do something wrong, will you tell me what to fix?"

"What are you so worried about, son? You're published. You've got to be doing something right. I'm sure it's absolutely fine. I'm doubt I still have my touch."

The American said nothing at all; he merely gave Arthur's shoulder a gentle pat, in a kind of friendly affection. It was sad, really. To see your idol sinking into a pit of disbelief, when you know they're the absolute best. But telling the Englishman so would only illicit an argument. Because it did not matter what Alfred F. Jones thought of Arthur Kirkland, the poet. What really mattered was what Arthur Kirkland, the man, thought of Arthur Kirkland, the poet.

They arrived at the long steps leading upwards to the man's lonesome little apartment.

"Good-bye. May I see you again next week at the same time?"

"Yes, certainly. And please, call me Arthur."

"Of course."

Of course.

Something within that heart shimmered, a nugget of handsome gold beneath generous sunshine.

Arthur. Not Mr. Kirkland; not sir, but _Arthur_.

Oh goodness.


	9. Chapter 9

That day, Mr. Kirkland spent all his time within the bath, staring at the yellow spot upon the ceiling and dozing in and out of sleep.

He dreamt of utter nonsense; thoughts that did not make sense, as though he was constantly sitting upon the border of going to sleep and actually being asleep. I should consult my tea next time, before adding sugar. I should contact the ostrich farm the next time I need a ride. I should go fetch the paper right at this moment.

Wait.

Blond lashes touched to one another, and arms sat outside of the barrier of porcelain, while that pink mouth remained ajar. Poor Arthur was soaking in a vat of his own passion. That heart was beating so loudly against his rips, it seemed impossible for the man to be as lethargic as he was, but the fluid was too warm for him to be awake.

It was a sort of high produced by sudden happiness. The Englishman never took baths for this long. He had always been the sort of person that would be in and out. Hurry up, scrub your flesh. Hurry up, wash your hair. Hurry up, dry off. Now go to bed.

That was another thing that was quite wrong with this scene. It did not take place in the evening. It took place in the afternoon, at _twelve_ none the less.

Oh, Arthur, you've lost your goddamn mind.

But he had not. It was possible he had actually won it back.

No sane person would spend so much time brooding over lost words, trying in malformed desperation to get them back. For four months, he had wasted his time. And now that he had suddenly got them back, he had to relax. Because he hadn't for so many days before hand.

Arthur thought for a moment that his organs had all twisted together in a kind of knot. That was how his insides felt at times. Like they were tangling together in his worry. As though all this stress and insanity would cause his stomach to develop ulcers and his intestines to tie themselves into tight bows. Like shoe laces.

But goodness, he was just so relaxed now.

Finally, he could take a moment to rest.

Confidence was incredible medicine. Now, there was no need for obsession. Arthur _knew_ he could write. He had been doing so without stop for the last several nights, and his heart was swollen with the joy it brought him. Even when he had first begun, there was not this level of contentment.

Cigarettes to opium.

Oh my.

That thought made Arthur hungry for tobacco. It felt as though he had not smoked in quite a while. Well, he hadn't, actually. Those hands were kept far too busy to occupy themselves with the task of rotting out his lungs. That's simply the way it went.

Damn. A cigarette sounded _wonderful_.

Arthur emptied out the tub and rose from it, taking the single towel he had from the rusted old rack and wrapping it around his figure. He dried himself, shaggy hair and all and ventured out into his bedroom, finding his clothing set against the bed.

They were in his pocket, he remembered. That was where he had stored them.

So, those beaten poet's hands searched through all the cavities of those garments, but did not find their reward. Only empty space and irritation.

Where could they possibly be? It wasn't as though he had anywhere to put them. The entire place was _bloody_ empty.

So, in a bought of spoiled need, those feet dragged the man into the main room, where there were two very open windows and upon the floor was his package of tobacco, the matches sitting cleanly on top of it, in perfect order as well. All the edges were parallel, as though someone had placed them in that position.

But he must have dropped them. The man didn't recall ever putting them against the floor. That action didn't even have a lick of sense to it. And he hadn't been drunk. He had had a sip of wine with his handsome French companion, but that hardly constituted as intoxicated.

Arthur walked to the center of the well lit room, picked up his pack, and returned to his room, lighting one of those rolls along the way. He was puzzled, but that was hardly pertinent over the fantastic burning in his lungs.

_Oh_, that was good.

Then he got dressed, and that was that.


	10. Chapter 10

"Will you allow me to paint you, Monsieur Kirkland?" The pretty Frenchman was collecting his things to leave, all in a small bag the man had seen numerous times before but never _really _noticed.

"Why would you want to do that?" The Englishman wore a mix of flattery and confusion about his face, as a colorful mask of some unnamable creature. "Wouldn't that just be a waste of paint?"

"Oh, _Monsieur_. _Tu casses mon cœur_. Don't you realize how lovely you are? Listen, I'll make sure you're well fed and while I paint you, we can have a lovely conversation about art and music and all sorts of things. I feel sad when I can't look at your face."

This was becoming a frequent occurrence. That Bonfeuille would say something so very sugared and rich, the bitter old man could not muster up anything rational as a response. He became all emotion, a bucket of pink sentiment that had no rhyme or reason.

Lewis Carroll might as well have written about him. That would have been more coherent.

"Stop…"

"It's true, _mon petit auteur_. What do you say? Won't you come over and pose for me? I'm not one of those strict painters that yell at you for moving. I find it far more interesting when you shift, actually."

"But why do you find me so lovely? _I don't understand you_."

"What is there to understand? It just _is_, you lunatic."

Brows crinkled. Like elderly paper.

Francis simply waited for a reply, a greasy smile written all about those handsome cheeks. He was the one who was lovely; not a man like Arthur Kirkland. A bit of his ruined blond hair was caught between the fingers that produced so much poetry.

He would be more attractive bald.

"_Arthur!_ For God's sake, can't you just be happy? I love your hair. Say yes. I want you on canvas, so I can hang you up in my house and stare at your for hours."

"Then you should take a picture. It would be easier, wouldn't it?"

"It's not the same!" The Frenchman was becoming frustrated. "You're going to make me cry."

"Please, don't cry Monsieur Bonfeuille. Can I think about it?"

"But what is there to think about?"

"I don't know. I'm just unsure for some reason. I don't feel like I'm worthy of being painted. It's very difficult to explain. Don't waste your canvas on me, or your paints. I know it's an expensive hobby. "

The displeasure strewn upon Francis' face could not be described. He looked as though his heart had cracked in two between his ribs, shattered and unable to be mended. It was such a dejection that it spread straight to Arthur's crux as well, infecting him with a depression that could not be shaken. It was terrible; this welling. So terrible, it crippled his mouth and wound his tongue into a knot.

"I'm sorry. Please don't look so sad…Is there some way I can make it up to you?"

Nothing was spoken.

"Monsieur Bonfeuille?"

"_Non_. Call me Francis. I don't want to be a stranger to you."

They regarded the ground beneath them, the old floorboards set up in the actor's dressing room. It must have been odd to be standing outside at that moment; the deafening silence after such a bought of passion.

"Francis, why do you like me so well? I just-My writing isn't that great. A lot of people don't even like it, and for good reason. You're treating me like I would treat Shakespeare, but he actually _was_ a genius…"

"Why are you such a fool, Arthur? Don't you understand how wonderful you are? You _are_ a genius; just because some people don't have the good taste to enjoy your work doesn't mean a damn thing. Do you think everyone just _adored_ Shakespeare? I'm sure he had even more critics than you do. But does that take away from the greatness of his poetry? Are his plays any less amazing just because some idiot can't appreciate it? No. Of course not. It's no wonder why you've been going through a writer's block. I couldn't act if I kept telling myself I was awful. But I'm not awful, and neither are you, you moron. You're one of the best writers of this century and if you can't see it, then you don't deserve to be what you are."

Arthur regarded Francis for a long moment. "I've actually gotten better. I've been writing poetry about you, but-"

The sentence could not be finished, for Francis was too possessed with a passion to listen. He fastened their lips together and tugged on Arthur's frayed blond locks, pulling his head back. Pulling his heart back together. Pulling his soul right from his chest.

Their lips worked together, tongues embracing and buds meeting. It was a dance neither had practiced together but knew all too well.

Saliva was exchanged.

Arthur was knocked backward onto the couch, with his hands holding onto either side of Francis' face. Thumbs touched to ears and their kiss grew even deeper in its inspiration, biting and scratching and tugging each other in closer.

Then, so suddenly, this bonding became soft, lips gentle and trying to bandage the blood that was drawn.

And soon after that, it stopped.

They were breathing hard. Out of breath. Cores screaming and blood on fire.

"Why are you so silly?" A fast peck. "I love you, Arthur."

"You can't love me…We've only just met."

"But I do. So I can." Another meeting of wetted orifices. "Will you let me read what you've written?"

"I don't know if it's good enough…I can't describe you. You're too beautiful. Not yet. Please, let me make it better, and then you can read it."

"You're too critical." A delicate touch traced the trapped one's frame, and their gazes melded. "I bet it's wonderful."

"It's not. I just can't write about you correctly. It's all wrong…"

It was at this moment that Arthur Kirkland began to weep, and Francis held him, kissing away that sadness, resting his face against the Englishman's and catching sorrow within finger prints. There was no explanation for those tears. Perhaps because no one had really admired the man this much. Perhaps because Arthur was given such kind words. Perhaps because he was taken with a passion that hit him as a ruthless train. As a bullet in the head. Perhaps because someone loved him for all he was and was not. It was not only one of these reasons, and it could have been none at all. The fact was that Arthur was crying and Francis was comforting him.

"Please don't cry, _mon chère_. I love you. _Je t'aime_." Those lips kept moving, even after the words. "Please. You break my heart. I'll cry with you if you don't stop, and where will that get us?"

But Arthur did not cease. He could not. There was too much of that feeling, mangled as a rose bush without the fortune of the roses. Only thorns and hateful cord.

"Oh, Arthur."

The poet, the play-write, the author, held his companion, pulling that weeping visage to his shoulder and expelling even more of those droplets. He tried to apologize, but it turned into French gibberish within his mouth, coming out like stupid mush. Like words from a child.

"I'm sorry, Francis."

"It's alright." A quick kiss to that ear, which was crimson and just as sorry as the rest of the man. "I love you."

"I love you too."

They remained for a long duration, and finally, Arthur went home, with dried misery and adoration and puzzle all over his cheeks, trying so hard not to begin again. He did not understand it. But that was alright. Sometimes, these matters were not worth understanding. They simply _were_.


	11. Chapter 11

The Englishman, who had fell in stupid love, sat at the table he had bought, staring into the innards of Florence. He had so many good ideas; he could not express any one of them correctly. They were all horribly different and mixing together into the most hideous of things. Ten thousand bright colors coming to form shit brown.

Those furtive green eyes threw themselves from the window, lips gaping. His mind wouldn't move from Bonfeuille. That was the problem. There were too many things as once because _he_ was too many things at once.

The perfume lining the man's clothing was still present. Or was it perfume? Arthur didn't know. This was too much of a mess.

That kiss shared last night played over and over again within his mind. How pathetic he was, weeping for no reason what so ever. How was he to explain himself? Arthur was merely miserable because he _could _be?

Crying with no explanation. Breaking a vase because you felt like it. Staring from a window and drooling into your hand because you've become stupid. What sort of excuse was that?

Frying up your brains like an egg in a skillet. With bacon and orange juice and the whole ride. Oh, if Arthur was to commit this flavor of suicide, he was going all out.

A sigh to crack contemplation.

"I should take a break."

Those serious wells confronted Florence, who was sitting and waiting politely against that cheap-ass table, a smile composed within her empty lines. A hand stroked her parchment, smooth manila, sweet quality. She was lovely, this one. Arthur would never stain her with the cruelty of a burn.

Mounds drooped even more so than they had.

Then, Arthur rose, closing that gorgeous notebook and walking into the bathroom, with his singular towel and empty walls. This place needed some furniture; it was awful. Who the hell would want to live in such a hole? You'd need to be insane.

Maybe Arthur was.

Hands absently went to the knobs at the side of that rusted facet, and cool water went pouring into the tub. Slowly, it grew in heat, until it was scalding. It was at that point that the man placed in the plug and began to remove his clothing, each singular button stinging his hands like a bee's venom. Why did everything suddenly hurt? It was pain or ecstasy. There was no real in between anymore; no normality to be found in this place. And within Arthur's apartment, it was mostly the negative sensation. This was a terrible place to live; there was no denying that. Almost every room was empty and the only decorations he owned were a deformed table and an ancient bed, with sheets that bit at him like ticks. He was surprised he didn't wake up bleeding.

The only lovely thing in this poor excuse for a home was Florence. And she took up such a small amount of space, she almost did not count.

Invite Francis over… He would make a lovely piece of furniture, standing in your kitchen, in your living room, in your bedroom.

You probably wouldn't even need to clothe him. He is French, after all.

Arthur took a mighty gulp. This situation was boiling and he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He had never been in love before, truly. Not this deeply. Was that the reason why everything caused so much damn pain? And pleasure?

Arthur started to smoke a cigarette, which he took from his pants' pocket. At least it was in the right place this time. He was such a goddamn scatter brain.

The tobacco burned sweetly inside his lungs, and for a short few seconds, there was relaxation inside his veins. For a short few seconds, there were no more overwhelming problems. Just worry about writing, Arthur. That's what you came here to do, after all, even if your French is something terrible. London won't go running away.

The water was turned off, for it bordered against the rim, and the man climbed into that vat of steam. It set his skin to flames, but that was one of the better sensations. This was wonderful pain. Just like thinking of that actor. He could be anyone he wanted to be. How fantastic.

The smoke rose into the yellow spot hovering above Arthur's head, remaining there and fluttering about, utterly confused. It danced, but more erratically than the smoke of incense. The cigarette smoke ran faster, knocking into walls and dissipating as though it moved in double time. Still, that thin cloud hovered around him, kissing to his pores and overtaking his senses. It smelled good. It made him happy.

An expulsion of dirty breath. A few ashes landed into the water, floating for a moment, going out and then sinking.

How romantic this was. Somehow.

Arthur closed his eyes and began to dream of the one who possessed him. That shiny blond mess of curls. Lips like rosebuds. Eyes burning like sapphires. A scent like rich perfume. Kisses that waged a war within his body, one side diving into the battlefield and the other hesitant upon the grass.

He could still feel that mouth against his own, causing him to shutter violently. It caused such a horrid reaction within him; Arthur didn't know how to handle it. It was like being thrown into flames and soaked in water at the same time. Was one to feel the pain of the conflagration or the comfort of the waves?

He wanted another one. He wanted another five. He wanted to push Francis into his fancy little couch and tear the blouse from his chest. He wanted to taste his hide and bite his neck and steal his warmth all at once. He wanted to make a mess and be a mess and not give a damn about any of it. He wanted to tear up the room and lie in the center of it, soaked in hot pink pleasure and melting onto the rug.

And he wanted Francis to be there with him, in the same state.

And he wanted it to be his fault.

A slight moan.

That sounded like a good idea. Arthur liked that idea very well.

Blond lashes soaked themselves, and one of those tired hands moved to the ebbing blood between his legs. Did he really have a choice? It had been so long.

Arthur had not had a lover in four years.

_Jesus Christ_, four years…

It was no wonder why he was losing his mind. How can one have any inspiration without even a fragment of love? His heart was dried out and decrepit. A sunflower without any water in the center of a drought. It wilted and cracked and fell into the dry soil.

No beauty can come from that, no happiness. Only hot breath with no substance.

But now, that chest was a blossoming garden with roses and peonies and lavender. Every flower imaginable, all dancing in a colorful chorus. From death to life; Paris had resurrected him. Blood filled those empty veins. The dead heart began to beat. Closed eyes flashed open.

Arthur moaned.

It was not his hand that was doing these things. Of course not. It was Francis' palm that stroked his most secretive areas, his mouth touching to his cheeks and mounds and neck. It was Francis who was holding him so softly and making rouge shoot into his face. It was Francis who was causing this heat. It was Francis who was causing that member to harden. It was Francis who was causing the poet to climax and make a mess within his bath water.

You can't do that with your hand.

The fluid was drained away, and Mr. Kirkland stepped over that rim, which was slightly wet with the newly dirtied liquid. There was a bit of shame, but that did not matter. The Englishman was happy. He did not even pay attention to the fact that his clothing was left upon the floor, or the bathroom door was wide open. Or the scent of roses and cigarettes were all about the room. No; he simply picked up the garments he had specifically placed near the sink from the tiles and dressed, even with the door swinging wide open.

It did not occur to him how terrifying that all was until much later in the night, when he was sitting through another one of Francis' plays.

But even then, not much attention was paid to it. Arthur was still too occupied with his French actor, who was pretending to be Italian.


	12. Chapter 12

They sat at the café, Arthur staring into his drink and Alfred wearing an awkward smile. They had just had a small and stilted conversation, about nothing at all. In fact, it was so insignificant; neither truly remembered what it was about.

"Arthur, did you get to read my story? I'll have another one out in a week."

"Oh?" The Englishman looked up. "No…I didn't. Not yet. I truly wanted to, but I just-I've been so busy lately. I'm sorry."

"That's alright." The boy tried desperately to murder the disappointment eating up his eyes. "We all get busy at times. But do you think you could read it this week? I really want to know what you think."

"Yes, of course." Brows dropped. "Alfred, let me buy you a drink."

"You don't have to make it up to me, Mr. Kirkland. I understand." A pause. "Has there been something wrong lately? I don't intend to offend you, but…You don't seem quite right."

"I think I've gone and fallen in love."

"_In love?_ With who?" There was an air of disbelief surrounding the opposite. The man had only been here about three weeks. One can't fall in love in such a short amount of time. Or could they?

Before the man spoke, his gaze touched to just about everything aside from the one he was speaking to. This wouldn't be such a confession if the object of all this affection was a woman, but Francis clearly was not.

"Arthur, what is it?"

"Please, promise me you won't laugh."

"Why would I laugh? Who is it?"

"An actor…Francis Bonfeuille." Cheeks became inebriated just as the mention of that name. "He's been on my mind since I've met him and it's driving me mad."

"Is it because he's another man, Mr. Kirkland?"

"No-I don't know what it is. I feel like I make a fool of myself whenever we speak, but that's not the only issue I'm having. My insides are just turning themselves into knots and-" Teeth secured that bottom lip. "He asked me if I would pose for him; he's a painter too, but I said no and I don't even know why. I just felt like…Like it was something I shouldn't do. Like giving him everything he wants was actually a bad idea."

"Well, agreeing to pose for a painting isn't really giving him everything, now is it? You can certainly do that much without feeling terrible. I think it would be a good time for either of you." Alfred looked at his companion with a soft focus. "Is that all you've been frustrated about?"

"No, that's not all, but it's all revolving around the same thing. This is his fault. I can't even think straight, and it's Bonfeuille's doing." A few seconds lapsed while the distraught poet thought. "Doesn't it bother you that I'm in love with someone of the same sex?"

"It doesn't bother me personally, no. The Bible says it's wrong to love another man, but I'm not in any position to judge, Mr. Kirkland. You love who you love. It's not like this is something you're doing on purpose to upset anyone. You just happen to feel a certain way about a certain someone. Besides, I think everyone runs into this kind of attraction at least once in their lives, if not more than once. It's really just a matter of whether or not they decide to act on it. More power to you if you do. At least you have the courage to take what you want. And God will forgive you. Maybe He intended you to have this relationship. No one can know this sort of thing for certain."

They stared at one another for a long moment. "Alfred, have you even loved anyone of the same sex?"

The boy did not answer.

"I'm sorry, I'm being a fool. I shouldn't ask such an awful question."

"No, it's alright. I would probably wonder the exact same thing if I had just heard that speech." A pause. "Well, yes. I have. I've never actually _been_ with that person, but I did love them intensely. But I've loved women as well, and it was the same sort of love; romantic love. Not just a love based off of a friendship, or simple affection; I mean I _fell_ in love with that person. But that's all over now."

"Well, that makes me feel much better."

"Mr. Kirkland, you should never go thinking you're the only one. Lots of people have this dilemma; they just don't care to admit it because it's considered a sin. No one wants to be a sinner, even if we're all sinners. Not only that, but many people look down on others for having that kind of feeling, even if they might be just as bad in another part of their lives." The young man stopped speaking to gather his thoughts. "Love is a beautiful thing. And even if someone else might judge you for it, I'm happy for you, Mr. Kirkland."

"Thank you, Alfred."

"Of course. Have you told your friend about your feelings for him?"

"I didn't even have to. Francis told me first."

"Oh. That's quite a bit easier then, isn't it? So what's upsetting you if you both love one another? You're just nervous of doing something wrong?"

"I suppose so. That's the only way I can make sense of it, but I'm sure there's some other underlying issue I'm missing. It's just one of those things I really cannot put into words, and every time I can, I never cover the problem entirely. Just one aspect of what I think is wrong, and then I'll think about it and that doesn't seem like it's what I'm upset about anyway." Arthur allowed his chin to sink into his open palm.

"So, you're frustrated."

"Precisely! I'm simply…I'm frustrated out of my mind. I know it's not because Francis is a man. I don't care about that, really. If I did, I wouldn't have even come back to one of his shows, but I'm there almost every night. It's something else, and for the life of me, I can't put my finger on it."

"Maybe you're bothered because you didn't pose for him."

"Do you think I should?"

"Well Mr. Kirkland, if someone had asked to paint me, I would say yes without even thinking about it. It's quite the honor to be asked to model for someone. Perhaps it's because you know this is a sign of his affection towards you and you turned it down. I would feel badly if I refused a loving gesture from someone I liked just as well. You should tell him you'd love to pose, even if it does involve a lot of stillness and discomfort."

The Englishman thought a lengthily moment. "It's only a few hours of time, after all. I might really end up enjoying myself."

"You see? You have to give these things a chance."

"You're right, Alfred. And it will make Francis happy. Then maybe I can clear up the mess in my head because I'll have nothing more to feel guilty about."

The American boy offered an approving nod.

"Thank you. I'm going to do just that. And I'm also going to read your article. How have _you_ been, by the way? I'm sick of talking about myself. What have you been doing, Mr. Jones?"

"Just what I always do. Nothing too interesting. At the moment, I'm writing about one of the churches in Paris that's running a charity for the homeless, but it's not very interesting, to be honest. It's a great cause and what-not, but unfortunately, a dancing cat would have sold more copies."

Arthur laughed and Alfred smiled. And they spoke for numerous minutes until the young man had to go, a meeting with his editor cutting their time short. But that was alright. Alfred had truly made Mr. Kirkland feel much better about his circumstances, and now he was certain what direction he would take.

As Alfred walked away from the Englishman and his sherbet orange journal, Arthur made a vow that he would be more daring. All this concern and worry were only managing to make him sick to his stomach. He would make bold moves and not sit in utter doubt over them either.

It then occurred to him that Alfred had called him 'Mr. Kirkland' the entire time as well.

What a sweet, sweet boy.

He was glad they were to meet again.


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur found himself within that home, just after crossing the boundary of neat concrete stairs and a welcome mat with a sunflower. And what a lovely home it was, so much larger on the inside than it appeared. There were paintings everywhere, paintings of men and women and flowers and color. Many of them were simply fantastic, and others were somewhat obscure. For instance, there was a one upon the wall of a pink background and a blatant red dot in its center; that was all of it. Arthur did not understand it, but he was not an artist; he was a poet. It was a different matter entirely, and he thought it rude to question every little off thing he encountered.

Because the house, as a whole, was gorgeous. A few droplets of jealousy settled within the man's stomach.

"I'm so glad you agreed to allow me to paint you, Monsieur. I'm really quite excited for our session together. Is there anything you need? A beverage or something to eat? You're welcome to anything in this home. I hope you treat it as though it was your own."

"Well, I don't want to impose, Francis. Are you going to have anything?"

"I was going to get a drink of water."

"Then I'll have one as well."

"Perfect. I'll show you to my gallery and we'll begin, after I get the drinks of course."

The Englishman nodded.

He would be a liar if he said he was not at all nervous. Even his little fingers were quaking. He questioned his reasons for being nervous and they all seemed so ridiculous, but even acknowledging their stupidity did not seem to do a damn bit of good. The quivering did not stop, and those nails still picked at the man's lips until they bled and ached.

Then, Arthur found himself within Francis' gallery, paintings he had done layering the walls, a lavish couch kept in the center of the room and happy striped wall paper taking up the corners. The pattern was a pink stripe, then a white stripe, and a green stripe after that, over and over again. It was quite a happy wrapping, actually. It reminded the English man of spring and melons.

That thought brought his lips to a curl.

Then, Arthur noticed the peculiar thing about all of the portraits crowding the wall. Every subject was left naked. No clothing touching to a single once of them. Men with hairy chests and skinny waists and odd smiles accompanied by women bearing large breasts and small breasts and shy expressions and boisterous laughs echoing about the canvas.

Suddenly, the man's stomach lurched.

How did he not see this coming? Damn you, Jones.

"Francis, do you expect me to-"

"Expect you to _what_, darling? Pose nude? You can if you like. Usually I would insist, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I can see you're nervous. Whatever you decide to do, I love you. So don't worry about any judgment from me."

"Do you want me to?"

There was warm laugh bubbling upon the Frenchman's tongue, but he did not release it. "I certainly wouldn't mind staring at your body for a while, _non_. As I've said, I find you quite beautiful, but I won't make a comment as to what _I_ want. This is about what _you_ want. It's your painting, after all."

The man thought a moment.

"Take your time, _mon chère_. I have to fetch something for you to drink as it is." The Frenchman moved toward the door. "You can consult me about it once I return, if you find yourself to be unresolved."

And the Englishman found himself alone.

Arthur regarded his buttons, how shiny they were and how their glare seemed to grasp him at the throat. He felt uncomfortable clothed, but how uncomfortable would he feel _nude?_ It was like choosing between eating sandpaper or tin foil. Not such a simple dilemma.

The first button came undone.

That felt much more liberating.

Remember, Mr. Kirkland, you're going to be daring and bold and you're not going to be upset with any off choice you might make. So choose and choose _hard_.

The next button came undone. His hands were hurting again. Pin pricks stabbing into the in between of his nail and the rest of his flesh. Maybe Francis would assist him. Those pants dropped.

When the actor returned, a tray of drinks within his hand, he found his darling to be standing where he left him, naked upon his lower half and clothed upon his torso. Immediately, mirth filled up the air as the smell of lilacs from the garden next door.

"Do you want me to paint you this way? With your blouse on and everything else off? I have to tell you, that's a bit silly."

"Oh, no…My hands hurt. I can't deal with these buttons. Will you help me?"

"_Bien sûr_." The French man neared after putting the refreshments upon the floor, holding either side of that garment and gently removing each little clasp for his dear companion. As he worked, sweet blades touched to that chest, smooth as leather. Oh, these small touches were like torture for that guest. "There." The white cotton was rolled from Arthur's shoulders. "Are you certain about this?" Fingers tracing the side of that blushing face. "I don't want you do something you're uncomfortable with just for me."

"Yes, I'm certain. I think it's about time I did something inappropriate. You won't go showing everyone, will you?"

"Of course not. That ruins the beauty of it, Monsieur. Instead of having you all to myself, I'm allowing your beautiful image to the entire world. That's not right; it's unfair to the both of us, don't you think? You're supposed to be all mine. I can't go sharing my flower with every filthy barbarian that wishes to touch it."

The Englishman was charmed and frozen at the same moment. "Francis, I never know what to say to you."

"You don't have to say anything, my love. You just have to sit still and be good." A quick smooch filled with the passion upon the painter's lips. "Go sit however you like. I'll bring you a drink when you need it."

"Oh, _Merci_."

Arthur, you stupid thing. Go sit down. Don't just stand there with your mouth spread wide like a dumb child.

The poet collapsed upon the couch, an arm arching over its support while legs went in their own directions. One foot touched to the floor while the other was suspended over the arm of that fine sofa. The Englishman looked very natural in this state. Not at all stilted or awkward. It was almost as though this was done every day, sitting on fancy furniture, not caring to clothe that form or even remember what exactly an undergarment was.

Francis behaved this way. He knew he did.

"Oh, that looks wonderful. Please, don't move. At least, not for now. I'm going to sketch you and then you can wonder around as you like."

"But, don't you have to paint the colors as you see them?"

"Oh, I do. But I like to place my own flare to it as well. Many traditional painters will tell you that the subject has to be in one place the entire time until the painting is done. Well, I simply don't like that." A pencil touched to the canvas and began sketching the liberated form of that well beloved author. "It completely bankrupts my own thoughts. I'd be called a terrible artist if I added my own colors, like purple and pink and orange if you were right before me. But if the spectators think that my subjects up and spilt…" More lines drawn onto the once blank area. "Then I can use every color imaginable, and no one can tell me it's wrong."

"But no one is going to see this, right?"

"No. I'll keep my promise. I simply mean any _other_ subject. I just need your shapes; that's all."

"Do people call you a bad artist, Francis?"

"Yes, sometimes." The busied creature did not even look up, unaffected by the inquiry. "But many people enjoy my paintings as well. It simply boils down to what I think."

"Well…You're not a bad artist. I think your portraits are wonderful."

"_Merci,_ _mon petit arteur_. That means the world coming from you."

More blood rushing to that pale flesh. No wonder why Francis wanted to use his own hues. No one would believe he painted a pink man. They would accuse him of the same crime he was already committing, even when he didn't commit it.

But it wouldn't matter because no one would see this painting. No one but himself and Francis.

And perhaps anyone else who ventured into this room, but that blond man could tell that wasn't a great many people. This chamber was untouched and immaculate; no one wondered here frequently, for if they did, it would not be nearly as enchanting.

The poet realized how special he was.

His heart swelled and his boiling hide went from light rose to rouge.

"You're so sweet, Arthur."

There was not a response.

And it went on for about an hour longer, until the painter ceased with his pencil and offered a grin to the one posing. "You can get up now. I'm finished with your sketch. Would you like to see?"

"Yes, please."

Arthur wandered to the side of the artist, glancing into the mirror he inhabited; a mirror built of paper and pencil, and soon pigments. And it was lovely. Francis had captured every last detail down to the frayed texture of his ruined hair, which made him churn in shame, but that quickly faded as the flattery of the entire thing weighed against his shoulders.

"Oh, it's wonderful..."

"You think so? You're happy with it, aren't you?"

"I love it. If it wasn't me in the picture I'd want to share it with everyone."

"Well, why don't you want to share it with everyone? Just because you're naked?" A hand traced down that chest, stopping at the abdomen, just before that trail of blond hair began. "Well, we won't tell a soul about this. It's our little secret, Monsieur."

Arthur paused. He was becoming slightly aroused, just as Francis wanted him to be. And there was nothing that could be done to cease the blood so possessed with his attraction. But it wasn't as though Francis would be surprised; he knew he was gorgeous.

Another hand was tracing the long of that English body, and not a damn thing was done to stop its progress.

"How long has it been, Arthur?"

"Forever."

"And how long is forever?"

"Four years…"

"Four entire years?" Francis' temple lied upon the opposite's collarbone. "Oh, you poor thing." A kiss placed into the crook of that neck. That vulnerable neck. "You must be so frustrated. I'm surprised your bones haven't begun to crack. I can feel the tension in your pulse…"

Fingers traced through that golden ocean and once again, mouths hooked together. Francis pulled Arthur into his body, and gently, those tongues began to meld, either very soft and loving with one another.

A pop and that ended.

"Arthur, go upstairs and meet me in my bedroom. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Entire minutes?"

"I know." Francis donned a quick kiss to the cheek. "I just have to clean up here first."

"Alright. I'll be waiting."

And Arthur turned away from his lover, not even bothering with those pesky cottons and climbed the risers, until he found himself to be facing another hallway with its walls filled with another few editions of canvas was colorful paint. The Frenchman had been right. He did use interesting colors, but the way used them was not terrible in the least. It took a great amount of skill to blend crimson and magenta and make a convincing shade.

Oh, he was honored.

Then Arthur wandered even deeper into that rabbit hole, finding a room which had a different kind of wall paper and a bed that was unmade. It did not take long for the guest to figure out that this was the chamber they were to meet in. Immediately, he took to rearranging the sheets.

It really was a quaint little area. A smaller chamber with a few flowers sitting in a vase upon the night stand, and a pleasant black and white pattern upon the boundaries of that room. There were black roses upon a creamy background, and for such a daring paper it truly seemed to work well.

The threshold creaked open while Arthur was staring into the sunset from the window.

"Did you make my bed?"

"Yes, I did." They were looking at one another, Arthur catching sight of a small glass bottle within the other's hand. "What is that for?"

Francis looked at him strangely. "Is this your first time with another man?"

The Englishman was almost too embarrassed to answer.

"Well, don't worry. Everything will make sense in a matter of moments. Just relax and know that I'll be gentle with you, when the time comes." The first few buttons of that happy French shirt came undone. "Get on the bed."

The orders were followed and Arthur watched as his counterpart undressed, exposing a fine figure with a bit of golden chest hair. But the last layer was left on, to tease the poor creature that was left waiting.

Finally, Francis joined him, pressing the poet back into the pillow and kissing him softly. Hands messaged his neck, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, everything but that swelling member, which managed to do nothing but make his condition even worse. But Arthur was too busy to really be upset. Francis' mouth tasted wonderful and knotting their taste buds together was a far more important task than worrying about a palm or two.

The warmth of another. It had been so long…

"Darling, don't be so tense." Their mouths ceased for a moment, and the actor went straight for the opposite's neck, suckling upon that sensitive flesh. "Does this feel good?"

"Yes…" A violent shudder as a hand passed over that thicket of golden hair.

"Hmm." A love bite was forming, and Francis no longer hesitated to grab a hold of the other's cock and sweetly begin tugging. Immediately, Arthur's back arched, mouth open wide. "I love you, Arthur."

"_Oh, Francis-_" Why was it that this man could pleasure Arthur better than Arthur could pleasure himself? It was almost as though the actor had been trained in the art of sex. Every last motion he made brought ecstasy.

The Englishman was nearly weeping.

There was a bit of laughter. "Aren't you glad you decided to come?"

Gasp. Francis' thumb was resting just over that slit, finger sliding about the shaft haphazardly, causing an entire mess of pleasure and passion. Arthur's entire body was on fire, but the sensation of flames was so wonderful, he did not wish for it to end.

But, it did.

"Already?" The Frenchman regarded his filthy hand. "Would you like me to do it again, love? It doesn't seem fair that you lasted such a short time."

"No…I don't know."

"Well, we'll focus on you. Why don't you get on your stomach? I'll take care of everything."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes." Mouths met briefly. "All of your moaning has really got me in the mood."

"Alright…" The lost little author did just as he was told, lying on his stomach and awaiting whatever happened to come next. He watched as Francis spread a bit of that oil onto his fingers just after those undergarments were removed.

Then, a weight came onto the bed.

Two numerals were felt at the English man's opening, simply wetting the area.

A soft cry came from Arthur's throat.

"You like this?"

"Yes, so far."

"That's good." The tip of Francis' finger gently pressed in, making his partner react, but only a bit. The digit dove in just a bit deeper. A breath hitched within the Englishman's throat. "This doesn't hurt too much, does it?"

"No. I'm alright."

So, it went on. Slowly, the lovely man inserted his fingers, softly fingering and scissoring and preparing that loved writer for his erection, which was stroked within his unoccupied hand. It wasn't as though the man truly needed to please himself all too long. Just watching his darling squeal was quite enough.

"Are you ready, Arthur?"

"Yes…" The answer came into the pillow, mumbled and sensual and in pain. "Please, just be gentle."

"Of course."

Slowly, Francis mounted his partner and wetted down that organ with a good amount of the lubrication, left to sit upon the nightstand. Those smooth hips were taken a hold of, and sweetly, the head of that cock pressed into the readied opening of poor Arthur Kirkland.

He was gripping the sheets with such a sad vigor.

And carefully, Francis slipped inside.

Arthur nearly screamed, but before he actually could, Francis kept his chest near to that nude back and offered the man's ear a loving embrace of the mouth. Then, the thrusts began, but they were not powerful, only gentle pushes forged in hot love.

"Ah…You're so tight." Another sloppy touch of the lips, with a touch to the Englishman's shoulder.

It was terribly painful, but Arthur did not see the use in ceasing it. Despite the sensation of being torn in half, he rather enjoyed having the artist's heat radiating on top of him, his sugared touches to his neck and shoulders with a few kisses added in here and there. This handsome man was making a conscious effort to be kind, and taking pleasure from him in that genuine attempt seemed unfair.

After all, it was not Francis' fault that Arthur was a near virgin.

Some part of this ache was actually quite pleasurable.

"Francis!" The pillow was grasped by two uncomfortable hands; a small protest made as one of those palms lifted Arthur's leg nearer to his stomach. "Ah! _Francis!_"

The one causing all this pain and pleasure was moaning quite loudly, still being as soft as he could. Slowly, that member would slide in and then slide back out, full of a sluggish rhythm and all of the affection that man could pick from his crux. "Arthur-" A fiery breath right inside that ear.

Those green eyes welded themselves shut as Francis' flesh ticked his backside; as those hips pushed into his own; as that organ cut him and managed to cause a sort of pleasure at the same instance. Mr. Kirkland even managed to bend that back a bit, making his partner whine in his own ecstasy.

"Oh, Arthur…"

It was so wonderful to be near to another once again. A very grand part of the author enjoyed this proximity to such a handsome thing. And his logic told him that the next time would not be nearly as terrible; he knew it wouldn't. Maybe Francis could even be a little rough with him, pushing him into the ruined bedspread and pounding against his figure.

That was what he wanted to do. But all that desire was stifled, as to prevent causing damage to that foolish virgin, who was crying in his sensation beneath the cause of so much emotional confusion. Part of it was even beginning to feel satisfying.

"Aah…" The pair was moving together now. "Oh, Francis…"

"Does this feel good?"

"Yes-" Breath.

"You like a little pain, don't you?"

"Ah-!" Arthur's lips nearly bled due to the scrutiny of teeth. "Yes! Please, Francis…"

"_Harder?_"

"Just-"

But the message was understood before the rest of it had to be sputtered out through moans of mixed agony and bliss. Those thrusts became a little more aggressive and the grip Francis had around his English lover tightened. That leg was pushed a little higher, that shoulder was secured within nails.

And Arthur, poor curious Arthur, was nearly screaming.

"_Mon Dieu-_" A cry shot into the air.

And for a few moments, that orgasm was taken, body resting against body and then body pulling away from body. Francis found it hard to capture air. But it was not long before the pair was once again sharing an embrace of mouths dipped in passion. Passion dyed hot pink.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Yes…"

"I'm sorry." Tender Presses. "Come to the bath with me. I'll clean you up. And maybe you'll allow me to make it up to you." Arthur's member was caressed gently. "Please."

And without anymore words, both Arthur and Francis went to the bath, their hands intertwined. And after they boiled away their filthy sex, both collapsed within that ruined bed, chests melding sweetly and minds dropping into a bottomless well of dreams.

"I love you, Arthur."

But Arthur was too damn tired to love Francis back.


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur sat at his make shift desk, eyes conversing with Florence and her happy rose tattoo. She did not have much to say; she merely smiled, happy for Arthur, not scolding him in the least for the decisions he had made. Looking at her owner proudly, acknowledging the fact that he was who he was, and that was something certainly worthwhile.

And the man sat there, taking his fine pen and leaving beautiful words inside her, an odd sort of euphoria etched about his entire soul. Arthur was a breathing garden of passion. His love was swelling from his ears; boiling towards his forehead as the mercury in a thermometer.

_We witnessed one another last night _

_Touching_

_Biting_

_Feeling_

_Molding into one_

_It was a beautiful experience _

_Like holding a butterfly between your palms_

_Or falling from a cliff_

_Only to find it was a dream _

_I wish to return to that fantasy_

_At some point _

_So that way I may hold the butterfly again_

_And know for certain_

_It was not a moth _

It still didn't seem right, but it expressed what he felt. And that was all a poet could do. Sometimes aiming for perfection was like picking at a scab. There was no right way to do it, and every time you try you end up damaging yourself. A step forward, but in reality a step backward.

Arthur's finger's traced that inhabited parchment.

At least. At least he was writing again. At least Francis had come along and opened his eyes to the world of flowers and wine before him. Or perhaps it was not Francis, but Paris itself. Or Maybe the heavy presence of London was the one to ruin everything for him. The cause was impossible to know for certain, but Arthur certainly felt the symptoms.

But the symptoms were gone now, so why worry of the cause?

The man was happy so why dwell on the sorrow? It was almost as though he was inviting it back.

Oh, he would give anything to never see that awful disease named writer's block again.

And in that thankful fit, the pen was reapplied to the surgery happening within that joyous little book. She did not mind it when the ink left marks upon her flesh; she did not mind when epiphany poured from Arthur's mind onto her blank and solid lines. Florence did not mind at all.

As Arthur focused, a soft smell entered the room. Lavender and roses.

_Francis. _

The smell of Francis-thick as cigarette smoke and incense and love-making. With the scent however, came a great gust of wind. But the gust did not come from the window he sat in front of it.

It came from his bedroom.

Immediately, Arthur stood up and ran into his chamber, only to find the window opened wide with Walter spread wide upon the floor, pages going wild. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, as though controlled by an indecisive gust.

The scent came even stronger.

And suddenly, it all stopped within a motion, and Walter lie shut upon his place. The breeze whispered softly through the opened window. That smell was gone, as though it was never there in the very first place. It left no trace upon the sheets, or the diary, or anywhere at all. As though he had simply imagined the entire thing.

Walter merely stared at him as though he was insane, with the look of an old man in a confusing situation.

Nothing about it made any sense.

So, the book was picked up, with the man thoroughly frightened, and Arthur Kirkland left the apartment shortly after that. His once hot blood grew frozen and uncomfortable. It seemed like a wonderful time for terrible tea.

And that was precisely what he had.


	15. Chapter 15

The door of that sunny little home was knocked upon, and Arthur stood by outside, clutching that happy orange notebook within his timid hands. Inside his mind, he was begging Francis to open the door, not certain of what he would do in the event that beautiful man did not answer him.

However, only a few moments later, French words leaked from the behind the door and Arthur was given a strange look from the resident.

"Oh hello." There was a brief smile. "Arthur, what are you doing here? Did you miss me, Monsieur?"

"Yes, of course…Would you mind if I stayed here a while? I won't be a bother if you're busy. I know I came in unannounced."

"Oh, please darling. I haven't been busy in years. I'm actually quite happy that you came for a visit. It's quite lonely in here sometimes." Francis moved aside so that the poet could come in. "Please, make yourself at home."

"Thank you…"

"_Mais oui._"

And Arthur came into that comfortable palace, two hands sitting upon his shoulders. "Is there something wrong, _mon chère__?_ You seem upset." That touch came into a simple embrace and the Frenchman's chin rested near the unexpected guest's neck.

But there was not an answer.

"Love, what is it? Did someone hurt your feelings?"

"No, Francis. It's nothing like that." Sigh. "I think I'm losing my mind, although for plenty of years, I've been perfectly sane…"

"Well, what is it? You know you can tell me."

A bit of hesitation arrived before the words could even form. "I'm beginning to believe that my apartment is haunted."

"Haunted? What makes you say that, Arthur? Have you been having bad dreams or-"

"No. It's not bad dreams. Every time something off happens, I'm always wide awake. Today, I was writing at the desk next to my window and there was a great gust of wind, but it didn't come from the window near me; it came from my bedroom. So, I walked in there, knowing I probably didn't leave the window open, and on the floor was my old notebook. The pages were blowing around wildly." Those eyebrows sunk upon Arthur's troubled gems. "I know it sounds stupid, but you really had to be there to understand. It didn't _feel_ right; I know something's wrong…"

"Well, it certainly sounds unusual enough. Where did you leave your notebook?"

"On my bed…"

"Oh my." A kiss was placed upon the blond man's ruined crown. "Was that the only thing that happened, to scare you so horribly?"

"No, there have been others. If this was the only incident, I would still be at home, writing about something or other. But-"

"It wasn't."

"Precisely."

"Well, I can understand your fear, Arthur. Once, I had to stay in a home that was very much haunted. Being there was terrifying. I know it's odd to hear someone speaking of their old haunted house, but I do understand your dilemma. Listen, you can stay here as long as you like, until you feel it's safe to return. Or, you can simply remain forever. That's quite alright with me." Laughter.

"So, you don't think I'm mad?"

"Heavens no! Didn't you hear what I just said?" Kisses. "I'll get us some tea, and we'll sit on my couch and talk about whatever you like."

"Thank you, Francis. I really do appreciate this."

"Of course. I can't turn away my favorite play-write, especially when he comes to me upset. It's no trouble for me, I assure you."

Again, Arthur suffered from a deficiency of words. He seemed to be crushed beneath the weight of numerous imaginary diseases. Writer's block. Word deficiency. And now demons. Goodness, he _was _mad. And not only was he mad, but he was bothering poor Francis with his madness.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry!" Giddy hands captured that vulnerable face. "Listen, you. I _want _you to be here. I don't want you to be afraid, but I _do_ want you here. Am I the first person you went to?"

"Yes…You're the only one I know."

"Oh, _mon petit auteur_. What am I to do with you?" Another soft touch of the lips and the frame of Arthur's face was set free. "I'm your only friend?"

A simplistic nod was offered for an answer.

"I'm sorry, love. It's not your fault that the French can't appreciate your talents. Not many of them want to read in English, no matter how good the literature is. It's not your fault."

"I think it's a bit better this way. I was so tired of being stopped on the streets and asked, 'Oh! Are you Arthur Kirkland? _The _Arthur Kirkland? I've seen one of your plays!' It was awful. Imagine just going about your day, and suddenly some lunatic completely interrupts some wonderful thought you had to tell you how much they loved or hated something or other you wrote five years ago. It's flattering at first, but goodness, after a while you don't want to go outside. It hasn't happened for a while; that all slowed down when I stopped writing. But still…"

"Did it annoy you when I did the same thing?" Francis regarded his companion with concern.

"No! I mean-you're _different_, Francis. I know you can appreciate my plays because you're an actor. Your opinion means so much more than theirs; please, don't be confused for a moment. I was so glad you called me back stage that night. I had fallen in love with your Romeo. You must have read my mind because I had wanted to meet someone so brilliant…No; you're nothing like the rest of them."

"Oh, Arthur. I simply _adore _you." Those hands combined together. "Will you be coming to my performance tonight? I can get you that seat you like, right in the front row."

"Of course I'll come. We can go there together."

"Wonderful!" Lips to flushing cheek. "And would you like to sleep here tonight? I'd feel awful sending you back to that awful place. That and I felt much happier with you in my bed. Your presence made me very comfortable, simply because you're so warm."

"I'll stay if you'd like me to, Monsieur."

"Oh! This is fantastic! Listen, I'll go get us something to drink."

And either man moved deeper into that palace, speaking of art and life and anything but the haunting at that shabby little apartment. Arthur felt much better in the other's company, as though Francis would protect him from the harm of these malevolent forces at work in that shell of a home.

They went to the theatre together. They came back together. They spent a few hours kissing and finally went to sleep. Together. What had started as a horrifying day moved into a happy evening. Arthur had even forgotten about his troubles while they were inside one another's grasps. There were no issues with Francis so near. There could be none.


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur rushed into the café, holding Florence between his elbow and hip with Alfred's paper in his other hand. No, he had not read it. He had tried to; he had even thought about it, but he hadn't actually done it. The man was far too busy writing poetry about attractive Frenchmen and going to late night plays and staying even later with the actor who took a part in them.

He knew the boy would be disappointed, yet again. And any ill treatment the man received was entirely deserved. It wasn't as though he was legitimately busy, although that was the excuse he planned to use; he could have ceased his work at any moment to have a quick read, but he did not _wish_ to cease his work. That was the real problem. Arthur would rather be focusing on Bonfeuille than Jones, and he knew it.

Of course, he was ashamed. To a degree.

Not to mention, he was approximately fifteen minutes late. It was like throwing salt onto the fresh weld of a sword. The same wound that he had inflicted by being such a terrible friend.

"Hello, Arthur." The American wore a smile, another edition caught inside his hand. It was slid over the second the late man sat down.

"I'm sorry about my poor punctuality." Brows creased and lips did as well. "You haven't been waiting too long, have you?"

"No, not really. Only a few minutes. To be honest, I was a bit late myself." Grin. "Well, did you get to read it?"

Arthur's mouth went stupid. He didn't even get time to work into this portion of the conversation before Alfred was tossing it at him. And, yet again, like clockwork, the lack of an answer told the boy every last bit of information he needed to know.

"Oh, Arthur! You said you would!"

"I know; I'm so sorry, Alfred. It's been another terribly busy week and I've been so distracted lately, focusing on any one thing was horrendously difficult."

The child leaned back in his chair, disappointment overcoming him like the plague. He died right in front of the man, and poor Arthur could only believe it was his fault. "Oh, please don't wear that kind of expression. I don't know what I'll do. I'm so sorry, Alfred. Please, let me make it up to you this time-"

"Mr. Kirkland, I don't want _things_. I Just want you to read my article. That's all. Please, if you simply don't have enough time, then don't bother telling me you will. Just be honest. It's not like I won't understand. I'm constantly busy myself; so I can relate to the fact that stopping in the middle of a busy day just to read an article seems ridiculous. But don't go telling me you'll read it when you know you _won't_."

Somehow, those words caused a stab wound. They were not all too sharp; they were simply honest, but the mere pain in the opposite's voice was enough to send the man's heart spiraling into his stomach.

"I'm sorry-"

"I don't care if you're sorry. It doesn't change a damn thing."

There was a pause full of tension. Alfred sighed.

"Maybe I shouldn't be this upset. I know it's just a seven hundred word story. But I was looking so forward to knowing what your opinion would be. I feel like I shouldn't even have the right to be angry, because expecting _Arthur Kirkland_ to take even a few minutes out of his day for _me_ is ludicrous. If you don't like me, you'll just leave; I know that. I'm the one looking up to you, not the other way around…"

"Alfred, I'm not going to cease seeing you merely because you're justly upset." Those green eyes plunged themselves into Alfred's face. "You have every right to say what you want to say to me. I can't abuse you simply because you look up to me. I should be flattered, and treat you with respect. Don't be afraid to speak your mind, because you're so right. I should have read it, because I said I was going to." A pause. "No one likes to be lied to. Even if the lies are coming from an idol. I think that would be even worse than lie from a normal person."

"Did you mean to read it?"

"Yes, I did. But it's just as I said, my mind has been a complete mess lately; that is if I even have it any longer. I'm going home, and I'm going to read either of these stories. Really. I'm going to do it this time. And if I don't, even though I promise I will, you have every right to deck me in the mouth."

"Arthur, I couldn't deck you."

"Why's that? Don't I deserve a good sock in the face every once in a while?"

"Maybe, but I don't want to give it to you. I actually like you, Arthur, even if I am upset that you didn't read my story. But that's hardly a big deal on a grand scheme of things. It's not as though you killed my dog or broke my arm. You were just busy."

"No…I suppose not. But that doesn't make what I did acceptable."

"Well, just read these by next week, then. It will only take you a few minutes, and you might even improve your French." A slight grin, because Alfred was dragging himself up from the ashes he had made. "Let's talk about something else. How was your session with your actor friend? Did everything go well?"

"Yes, it did." Those lips curved. "It went very well, actually. I'm truly glad I followed your advice, Alfred. In fact, I just came from Monsieur Bonfeuille's home. We've been spending more time together lately."

"That's wonderful to hear. Do you think I could meet this 'Bonfeuille' at some point? Unless that would be asking too much."

"No, I think something could be arranged. I'd love to show you one of his plays. At the theatre, they usually put on Shakespeare's works. _Romeo and Juliet_ are frequently preformed; _Hamlet_ as well, but there are other ones. They've done _King Lear_ and _Much Ado about Nothing _occasionally."

"French Shakespeare?"

"Yes, actually." Mirth. "It really is something you have to see, Alfred. I know it sounds odd, but it's entertaining. Some of the other actors are quite bad, but Francis Bonfeuille is a genius. I can probably get you're a spot for free, in the front row. He's really a very giving man, and you'll probably like him very much. At least, I hope you do."

"Well, if he's as wonderful as you say he is, then I should have no problem enjoying this whole evening we're planning. When do you think would be best? I'm free Wednesday evening."

"Wednesday is fine with me." Florence was removed from Arthur's grasp and set upon the table. A pen prepared to write down the information, against that back few pages. "May I have your address? It might be easier for me to simply retrieve you, as I really can't give proper instructions on how to get there. The whole area is a damn mess, but I do know where it is."

"Oh, certainly."

Alfred's address was given to the author, and the hour was given in return, as every show began at the same time every evening except on Sunday, when the actors and actresses had their time off. All of this was explained, as well as more details about Francis.

It was not hard for the young man to figure out Mr. Kirkland's infatuation.

Now he really did have to meet this man.

Who was wonderful and gorgeous and a fantastic actor? It seemed like too many wonderful qualities in one; a series of perfections that never really seemed to find an end. This person must have been an angel, or perhaps even as far as a God.

The good reviews were making Mr. Jones wish to see this show.

And soon enough, he would.

"Arthur, I must ask you something about this person, and I don't want you to be offended. But I think it's something really worth considering."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Do you love Francis simply because he's attractive, or do you truly love him for his personality? It's very easy to fall for someone for looks alone, all the while missing every single fault along the way. I'm sure he's using his charm to work in his favor as well. Attractive people usually _know_ they're attractive."

Arthur had to think seriously for a very long moment. "You know Alfred, I'm really unsure. He hasn't been unkind to me, or turned me away when I needed help. It can't only be for looks alone, because when someone is cruel and attractive, I'm one of the first ones to point out the crueler side. Actually, I've found that bitterness mars beauty entirely, so I can at least say he's a very kind person."

"Well, I just hope everything goes well for you, Arthur. If you've found yourself a handsome and giving lover, then that's wonderful. I should just tell you to be on your toes. It can't be heaven forever."

"Alright. Thank you, Alfred…"

But by the look in his eyes, Arthur Kirkland did not truly believe a word of it. Francis was God, and Arthur was a devout man. Alfred could tell by the plain look in his glassy emeralds and the pink sucking up his cheeks. This was not the look he had met him with, and this man was not the same. Some chemical reaction had taken place in the most cardinal of organs and had managed to alter everything.

But perhaps some sense would come to the senseless man, so full of affection and probably far too stupid to see that this love boat was to crash into the stones lining the coast. Maybe then, the freezing water would wipe his mouth clean of the warmed drool.

Alfred left his drunken friend that day with worry inside his heart.

Well, he would see this Francis Bonfeuille soon enough.


	17. Chapter 17

Alfred and Arthur moved down the street together, the Englishman far more excited that the American thought possible of such a stoic person. Arthur was beaming. Lighting up the roads like a sun and making anyone present blind. So, one can imagine how difficult it was to stand next to him.

Well, it was certainly a good thing to see the man so joyous. Arthur was nearly depressed the first time they had met.

"Thank you for retrieving me." Alfred wore a slight curve about his lips, trying to be as open minded as possible. He did not want to think badly of this Francis person, even if he had indeed managed to steal away every bit of Arthur's time.

"I read your articles, like I promised." Those green eyes were so kind. "I thought they were very good. To be quite honest, I didn't find much of anything wrong with any part of it. Maybe that's because the entire thing was in French, but you're certainly a fine writer."

"You really think so?"

Now there were two obnoxious lights glowing in the center of Paris.

"Yes, of course. I never say things I don't really mean, Mr. Jones. That is, unless I'm being sarcastic."

"Well, thank you. I'm sorry to get so upset with you on our last meeting. Did everything go well with Francis? I mean, he wasn't upset when you asked him if I could come?"

"No. Not at all. He was actually quite happy to hear that I had a friend and said it was no problem for him to get another seat. It won't be something he can do every night, but every once in a while is just fine."

"Ah, I see. Will I get to meet him after the show?"

"Yes, of course. That's why I brought you, wasn't it?" A few steps were made in silence. "And like I said, this isn't the greatest theatre in the world. I think that it can be so terrible in some pars that's its nothing but entertaining. But, as long as you pay attention to Francis, you'll understand why I keep coming back."

"I see. Well, there's nothing wrong with supporting someone you love, even when that someone is in the wrong place. I would still support you if you were writing for a newspaper even cheaper than mine, Arthur."

The poet laughed. "That's good to know. Maybe I should be thankful to have such a good friend." A few more steps. "Tell me when your next article is to be published, alright? I'll actually buy a paper this time, so you don't have to worry about it."

"It's truly no hassle for me. We each get a free paper, and before I asked you to read what I had written, I never bothered with getting one. I always thought it was pointless for me to own one because I had already known what I had written. It's not as though I would forget from editing to publishing."

"But don't you want to read what others are writing?"

"To be blunt, no. They never read my articles, so I have no obligation to read theirs. I used to, but I'm so busy almost all the time, there's no way I could sit down and just read an entire paper from front to back. And if I was going to read a paper, I certainly wouldn't pick ours." Laughter. "I have absolutely no right to judge your friend's position. I'm in the same state myself."

"Well, I think you can do better, if you'd like to. Your writing is certainly good enough. If I didn't know any better, I would assume you _were_ French. Does your editor correct any grammatical errors? Or-not _any_, but a lot? Everyone who gets published has to deal with a few mistakes."

"Just about as much as anyone else."

"Well, that's real talent. If I wrote something in French, you would know right away that a foreigner was writing it; no doubt about that. But if you simply handed me your paper and said, 'one of the writers in here is American', I wouldn't be able to figure out it was you. I might even guess someone else who actually was French, assuming the names weren't listed next to the articles."

"Thank you, Arthur."

"I'm only telling the truth, son." The Englishman removed a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips, fumbling for a matchbook. "Would you like one?"

"I'm alright, but thank you."

"Ah, it's probably better that way. Smoking is a terrible habit, but I can't seem to stop."

The conversation lasted until the two arrived at the theatre, and Alfred got the full experience Arthur did when he came for the first time. How silly this place looked! Everything was meant to be extravagant, but it was so cheap, the place was only comical. Arthur truly wasn't kidding. No wonder why the young man had gotten such a mess of disclaimers.

Either of them found their seats in the front row- Alfred sitting next to Arthur- and it was not long before the play began. The pair only spoke about five minutes before the curtains were rising and all the announcements were made.

It was at this point that Alfred glanced to his companion, who was already enthralled in this terribly gilded production. He was watching as a mother watches a son who takes the stage the first time. Nothing in the world could tear his eyes from the stage. Because Francis Bonfeuille was coming, and it was best the rest of the universe know its place.

It was the same throughout the entire production, and it was almost more entertaining to watch the play-writer than it was the actor, sitting at the edge of his seat and pursing those lips, staring down the Frenchman with all the affection in the world, never moving his eyes from the stage until Bonfeuille left it.

It was purely ridiculous.

There were times when Alfred forgot entirely what play they were seeing.

Oh yes. _The Taming of the Shrew_. That's right.

For a moment, Alfred wanted to write a play. He was going to call it, "Stupid Love". It would be about two people who loved one another far too much for their own good, and some terribly ironic twist would come in the end to make them see how moronic the both of them were. He did not have all the details together, but Alfred was certain he could figure something out.

He did understand this infatuation, partially. It was certainly not a lie that Francis was the best actor in this entire theatre, and a very attractive man. One could stare at him for two straight hours and leave feeling wonderfully fine. Eye candy.

That could be a good play title as well.

But, the same affect was not had on the American man. He was simply left to marvel at the unhealthy state Arthur seemed to be in. Obsession was not a good trait to own. In any case, it was simply frightening. And by the look within those emeralds, one could tell that Arthur thought of Francis for hours every day. Not even frequently. To say frequently implies that Arthur actually had times when he was _not_ thinking of this actor. But that was simply not true.

Francis was everywhere at all times at all parts of the day.

Francis was _God_.

At least, To Arthur he was.

The play finally ended, and the poet and his companion were invited back stage. Alfred was going to meet the man who had utterly taken the mind and heart of his companion. _Oh, joy_. He was supposed to keep open eyes to this situation, but a decision about the entire thing had already been made.

Then, Alfred found himself standing within that dressing room, watching as Arthur and Francis greeted one another. They did not kiss before him; he was not one of them. This American intruder was a part of the public, and no matter what he had gone through or who he had kissed himself, there was no way they would perform such a spectacle for him.

A hand was soon held out to the youngest inside that chamber. "Hello. I'm Francis. You must be Alfred."

"Oh, hello. You're absolutely right."

Even his palm felt off. Were all Frenchmen so greasy?

"It's nice to meet you. Arthur speaks of you quite a bit."

"Oh, do you now?" A grin to the Englishman waiting at the actor's side, crippling beneath his shine and becoming nothing but dust. "Oh, Arthur. That's so sweet."

They held a brief conversation and laughed amongst one another, as though whatever was said had been exploited within a secret lover's code the two of them could understand, even though every word spoken was spoken in plain and simple English.

Alfred was not needed here. Nor did he feel welcomed. It was uncomfortable to know you were the reason why two people could not kiss.

"I'm sorry to be rude, but I have to cut our time short. I have an appointment with my publishers tomorrow morning, and not to mention, another interview. It was so nice to meet you, Monsieur Bonfeuille. Your acting was quite wonderful." Hands were shaken. "Thank you for everything, Mr. Kirkland."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I have such a gigantic day tomorrow; I have no choice but to go. I'm sorry."

"Alfred, why didn't you tell me this before hand? We could have planned for another evening."

"Well, there really was _no _other evening. I didn't want to disappoint anyone, sir." A brief smile. "My apologies. I hope you two have a wonderful time together. I'm sorry I can't be here to speak with either of you."

"It was nice to meet you, Alfred. I hope next time I might actually get to know you."

And finally, after all the little formalities, the American boy left, trying to find his way back to that apartment of his. Something within his heart was broken; something was worried and what was left simply felt displeased. There was almost nothing to be done tomorrow. But he couldn't have stayed; it would have been far too awkward.

Alfred imagined the two pushing one another into the couch and violently connecting their mouths, in their uncontainable passion, laughing at the fact that he had run. They knew as well as he did that there was no agenda; nothing to have accomplished; no meetings to attend. Nothing. And they probably found it hilarious. Two stupid children at their very stupidest.

Alfred lied down with a heart full of heavy concern for his companion. The poet was falling into a grand hole, but he was not even aware of this plunge. Even when he was the once jumping.

A sigh.

A sigh for Arthur Kirkland.


	18. Chapter 18

Arthur stood in the doorway of his apartment, glancing around the empty room with his mouth slightly sagging. His fingers made quick work of his sore lips, which were bleeding already. The wound was not only from his nails, but from the intense night shared with Francis, who would not allow Arthur's mouth from his own for more than a few minutes.

He had told him to return home; that he should face whatever frightened him. Perhaps everything would be resolved now.

So, Arthur took Florence and he walked home from that happy palace Francis Bonfeuille lived inside.

Every step coming over to this place was like a step weighted down with an anvil. His shoes must have suddenly converted to steel, because the man could hardly lift his feet from the ground. But he had arrived now, and nothing insane had occurred yet.

Arthur must have merely been mad. To think that such a desolate place was _haunted_ of all things. _Haunted_. He should strive to be so lucky.

The orange sherbet notebook was set upon its proper place against the table, and Arthur traveled back into his room, collapsing upon the ancient bed and closing those weary eyes. It was odd to be in this position without an attractive man curled up at his side, like a cat begging for something or other. For the past few days the pair had been inseparable.

Oh, Arthur thought back to that last week as though it was a sweetened memory a hundred years old. Each day was spent waking up; Francis would have breakfast ready with glasses of bright orange juice. Then, the two artists would chat and sit outside and admire the sky passing above them. It was at this point usually that they would begin to kiss, the Englishman transferring chairs to sit upon his darling's lonesome lap with limbs wrapping around one another.

One of those mornings, they had even sat upon the grass just before those two seats and held one another, mouths twining as the sections of a braid. Their hands dug into one another's chair, into one another's clothing. Into one another's most secretive areas. And despite all this affection, the pair did not make love; Francis did not want to force Arthur into that position once again and Arthur wanted to be certain the previous wounds were healed before he went about reopening them.

Oh, how lovely that time was.

And now, he looked onto his empty chamber and his dingy bed and his rusty window, trying to swallow the disgust. This place seemed even worse than it had before he had left. Ten years might as well have passed. It might have been in better condition, had this been any other place.

A sigh.

And Mr. Kirkland began to breathe slowly.

He felt incredibly tired, for one reason or another. He had slept in, but lethargy seemed to take over as a tranquilizer. Those green gems attempted to keep themselves open, as Arthur wanted to get some true work done on the poetry book he was compiling, but as the very thought of working crossed his mind, the dream sequence began to take over, and the poet was finished.

The scent of roses and lilac drifted into the room, but Arthur was out cold before it could be acknowledged.

The writer slept as though he had not slept for an entire week.


	19. Chapter 19

The wind blew from every direction, and in the center of it, Arthur stood nude, eyes shutting to prevent anything from ruining his sight. There was no particular direction to move in; nowhere to go. The entire world surrounding him was simply grey, and that was all. It was almost as though Arthur was standing in the center of a hurricane, but it was not so peaceful in this eye.

Somehow, he gathered up the motivation to move forward, hands coming out to feel the rough wind passing by them, and legs gathering the strength to knee that terrible storm as it kneed him.

And as Arthur moved forward, he began to see silhouettes of numerous people. On one side there were women in heavy gowns and upon the other there were men with gentleman's hats and heavy clothing. The poet was in the center of either reality, hovering between a gentleman and a lady.

He went on deeper into that well, calling out for anyone, unable to see past the flurry but still managing to fight on. He cried, but not one of the figures listened. He would move close to them, and they would disappear, as smoke floating into the sky.

And finally, Arthur's hands came to a door.

A bright red door with a golden handle, the scent of rose and lilac coming from behind it.

Was Francis there? Had he been there?

Arthur tried to call out his darling's name, but suddenly found his mouth to be full of dust. Apparently, he hadn't had a drink in months. His tongue felt as though it was going to curl up and turn to ash in a matter of moments.

Everything in this world was wrong.

The door was stared at for numerous minutes. Finally, a palm gathered the courage to yank it open, while the body threw itself inside. It was rash, but Mr. Kirkland was not one to wait upon a decision. He was a man who enjoyed being finished with making a choice, even if there was much thought to be had about it hours later.

Behind that porthole was a lavish chamber, with a table of gold in the center of it and paintings sitting all about the room. They were lovely, well done and colorful as the feathers of a peacock. Yet, there was no one inside that chamber to great him. It was a treasure he had to endure alone.

So, Arthur regarded each of those canvases, one wall having flowers and the next wall portraits of people, and the next, nudes. These were the ones that were crafted with the most skill. Goodness, they were lovely. One could admire a single portrait alone for hours upon end, much less the entire wall as a whole.

Then, the Englishman found one of the near photographs of himself, his face made up of scarlet and fire and rouge. The rest of his body turned into a grand mix of colors. Magenta. Sunshine. Sapphire. Grass. A world of beautify sat inside his figure, his flesh an array of grand colors.

He attempted to take it.

The walls began to fall, crumbling around the thief, who attempted to run but found the door to be locked. It was then that a terrible screaming was heard, coming from the middle of nowhere and shooting directly into his ear drum, driving the listener mad. This sound was nails on a chalkboard.

Then, Arthur woke up. But this screaming had not stopped.

Immediately, there was a panic. The man sat up to find a shadow standing in the corner of his room; the awful sound had ceased, but Arthur had no trouble making his own, a hand covering that mouth before anymore terror could drain from it.

And for a few long seconds, the two entities sat, staring into one another, the author lost within the midnight of the intruder's hide and the intruder utterly still. This creature did not even have eyes, but Arthur could feel the stare radiating from its head. After all, it was shaped like a human.

After their brief contest, the shadow faded away, simply disappeared, leaving Arthur with the greatest fear he had ever felt in a while. Speechless, he did not want to move, but there was no urgency to remain either. Only a desperate need to move from that sour chamber, but the man living inside it was so convinced that moving would cause that awful figure to return.

Finally, and slowly, Arthur got up and exited his bedroom, going into the kitchen and tasting a bit of the early morning. The sky had not yet become bright, but a light blue gathered at its brow, the stars slightly fading as the world came to a beginning once more.

Simply, the poet began to convince himself that he was merely insane. This was a trick of a fraying mind. He was writing too much. He was writing too little. Maybe he shouldn't be writing at all.

The thought sat at the back of his mind to go to Francis once more. Because these things never occurred at Francis' house. Arthur did not even hold a droplet of worry or paranoia while in that small heaven. But here, it was like hell. There was no real certainly of what would occur next, if anything would occur at all. But nothing _should_ occur. No reason existed for anyone to sit around and wait for their haunted houses to throw objects at them or produce terrifying images that were only too real.

Arthur found himself breathing deeply the rest of the day. No. Running away was like letting them win, whoever _they_ were. And he had only just returned from the home of Francis Bonfeuille. It was unfair to impose, _again_. Expect meals and love and company from what could have been a busy man. Perhaps the last time Arthur was there, his darling had put off his chores to entertain him. No errands could be completed when one was trying to keep a guest happy.

Was that normal of the French? Is that what one was supposed to do here? Completely let life down a narrow well for a friend or relative?

He was far more adjusted to bunburying.

So, the rest of that day was spent outside, where Arthur knew no tree or bench would suddenly move or creak toward him. He felt safer homeless, unable to return to that terrible prison he rented monthly.

But that jail bird did manage to write a few poems.

At least that was a positive step.


	20. Chapter 20

That figure would not leave him. Every morning, he awoke to a howl, sometimes accompanied by a shadow and sometimes the noise alone. Arthur found his eyes constantly behind his shoulder. His hands shook. Some nights, he did not sleep. Merely lied beneath his sheets with his eyes wide open, trying to calm that frantic heart.

Bags settled upon his face.

And when Francis saw him, immediate concern passed over his face- that expression so full of love and worry at the same instance.

Finally, he asked what the hell was wrong.

Arthur did not answer.

"Arthur, what's been the matter?" A hand touched to that chin and forced that gaze upward. "Tell me. You're losing your mind and I'm losing mine about _you_. Please."

Those lips quivered. He could feel it there. Behind him. But whenever he looked, it disappeared. "Oh, Francis…" Gorgeous green eyes closed and brows knitted together.

"My love. Please, don't cry." Gentle lips to that twisting brow.

"I'm so frightened. I don't know what to do. I'm not sure if I'm going insane or if what has been happening is truly real."

"Arthur, I don't think you're mad." More kisses as all that fear and building black emotion poured onto the Frenchman's chest. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? You know I would have opened up my home to you. Do you want to stay with me?"

"Yes." Those hands were gripping the opposite's blouse, kneading unpleasant circles into perfect blue silk. The poor poet was hysterical. "Yes, please. I'll pay you rent. And I'll cook my meals. I'll even cook _you_ meals. I just can't go back there again for another night. I haven't been sleeping at all and…" Wailing. Tears landing onto wrung fabric.

"It's alright, _mon petit auteur_…I would do anything to see you better. Please, don't cry. Everything will be alright."

"I'm sorry."

"No. You don't have to apologize for things that are out of your control. I understand, darling. We'll go back to your apartment and collect your important things, and then I'll take you to my home and you can just relax." That broken blond hair was stroked through. "We can make love if you'd like. It'll take your mind off of everything wrong, and you'll sleep like a child."

There was no noise, only the calming of that lovely poet.

"I love you, Mr. Kirkland." More presses. "You're breaking my heart with all this sorrow. You don't have to worry any longer. I'm going to care for you."

"Francis…" A grasp at breath that was desperately trying to evade. "I love you too."

"That's wonderful to hear, Arthur." Warmth was wrapped around the shattered man. "Let's go. If you like, I'll pick up your things tomorrow."

"Thank you. Thank you." The crook of Francis' neck was occupied. "Thank you."

"_De rien_, my love."

The pair went back to that pleasant little castle in the center of that wonderful city, holding hands the entire walk back. Arthur seemed less timid, although one could still tell he was well out of his mind. Kisses came into contact with his cheek, regardless of who managed to spot them, and comfort came with each of them.

The door opened and their mouths connected. Two hooks caught upon one another. And it was true. Arthur's mind was a thousand paces from that old apartment. A thousand paces from the terrible noises coming from behind every door. A thousand paces from the shadow and his terrible presence.

Everything was alright.

They went upstairs. They removed their clothing. And they made love.

Then they woke up the next morning.

There were no demons residing in corners. There were no voices to scream in Arthur's poor ear. There was nothing to fear but the fear of fear. Francis lied wrapped around him, nude, dining upon his sore neck and causing little whines to come from his lips.

"Don't you feel better?" Another love bite to be made. Francis suckled upon that flesh, as though he intended to turn all of Arthur purple. It wouldn't be such a difficult goal to attain.

"Yes…Thank you, Francis."

"Will you write me a poem?" Kiss. "I would love that."

"I've written you a thousand already. You just haven't read any yet."

"Where are they?" Pop.

"In my notebook." A soft sound of pleasure.

"You really do like pain, don't you? You naughty thing." A little bite made. "I have a feeling you strongly appreciate being black and blue." A finger traced past one of those marks. "Maybe you should be my ashtray for a little while."

A laugh. "I think that would be a little too much, Francis. I've been burned by a cigarette before."

"Did it hurt?"

"Of course."

"Did you like it?"

"Not as much as you'd like me to."

The pair stared at one another.

"I know this might be odd to hear, Monsieur, but I'm so glad to have you here. I'm not happy that you were so afraid, but I am happy that you're going to be living with me, at least for a while. We can find you another place if you like. But until then, you'll stay here. And you'll sleep in my bed."

"Are you sure you won't get tired of me?"

"Darling, it doesn't matter if I get tired of you. I'm an addict." Smooch. "I miss you terribly when you're not taking a place beneath my sheets. It's awful, spending any amount of nights alone."

"Francis, you could have anyone in the world."

"Yes, but none of them are like you. You're warmer. And you're prettier. And you're more intelligent. And far easier to love. So, if I can have anyone, I want you. You're my very favorite person."

Francis stole the noise out of Arthur's voice.

"Most people think I'm ugly."

"_No._"

"Hideous even."

"Then those people are _blind_." Francis stared right into those furtive green orbs. "You have the entire world in your eyes. You know everything. They're so beautiful, I wish they were on my face…And your thick eyebrows are so much better than thin ones. You can't have such powerful eyes and own a weak brow." Blades traced over that little tough of black hair. "And your mouth is so lovely."

"What about my hair?"

"Only geniuses have ruined hair. You've thought so much about everything, the fire in your mind caused your hair to combust due to the heat."

"Your hair isn't ruined."

"I don't think about anything. I'm just a stupid actor."

"But you have to think about things. It takes work to memorize all those lines. And to do it so well…"

"After so many years, it becomes nothing. Especially the classics. I know them all so well."

"You're not even old."

"No, I suppose I'm not."

"I'm old, Francis…"

"Yes, Mr. Kirkland. But you're old at heart. I'm not quite certain you even had a childhood. You were born working. You went to school and worked. And then you went to college and worked. And then you got out and worked. That's why you're a genius. You didn't waste your time on wine and fools. You made something of your life."

"I was unhappy before I met you."

"Well…" Lips conversing. "Maybe you forgot how to enjoy yourself, spending every waking moment accomplishing something. There's no joy in life without at least a few friends. Without even a little bit of love. Your body was desperate. I could feel it in every pore of your skin."

"You're right."

"I know I'm right."

"You're also a bad influence."

"Oh, a _terrible_ influence." A smile against the writer's mouth. "But even bad influences can be good."

"In that case, you're the best."

Francis laughed.

And Arthur kissed him.

Then they made love. Again.

Either were entirely too willing to forget about all the abandoned property at Arthur's apartment.


	21. Chapter 21

Once again, Saturday came, and Arthur met up with his American in the same café they had been gathering in. Late. As usual. His eyes were slightly worn and that neck was fully purple, from all the bites from his darling lothario. And Arthur wore them proudly, like badges he had earned in a very short time.

Alfred stared at the poet, mouth stupid and mind clouded.

"Hello, Arthur. Are you alright?"

"Yes…I'm alright." There was something off about his voice, coming out far too calmly. And that sight was far too poignant. Usually, Arthur simply had expressive eyes, but today, they were twisted, as though all the thought had drained from them, and the man was left only with emotion. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, has someone been chocking you? You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't. I moved out of my apartment."

"Why did you do that, Arthur?"

"Oh, it was haunted. I was terrified, but now I'm fine. Francis is letting me stay with him. He said he doesn't mind me being there, as long as I stay in his bed."

"Arthur, that's horrible! You're not supposed to do those sorts of things!"

"Why? Because The Bible says it's wrong?"

"Yes, for God's sake! Did you even think about this before you just went and moved in with this man? And what do you mean, it was haunted?"

"My apartment was haunted…" Those brows dented. "That's what I meant. I kept hearing voices and seeing-" Arthur cut himself off. "I don't want to get into details. All you need to know is that it was horrifying. I tried to stay there, I really did, but it was…It was too much."

"Arthur, have you been smoking opium?"

"Of course not! Why are you even asking me all these questions? I just sat down and here you are with an interrogation!"

"That's because I'm worried about you! You come here with this intoxicated look on your face and your neck completely covered in bruises! What am I supposed to think, Mr. Kirkland? I know you might have a hard time understanding this, but I'm your friend. At least, I really want to be."

There was a pause. It was heavy; a sack of bricks.

"Alfred, why would you worry about me? I'm alright."

"_No_, you aren't. You've just told me that your apartment is haunted and you moved in with a man you hardly know, all out of fear. Did you consider moving somewhere else before taking such a drastic step? You've only been here about a month and you're already moving in with a filthy Frenchman and walking around with purple splotches on your neck like it's something to be proud of. Arthur, you're not even married."

"Why do I need to be married to be in love, Alfred? Marriage murders love as soon as it happens. People who marry and expect to have a happy life are simply fools. You might as well take what you like when you can, because life alone is miserable enough. I'm happy. Why can't you be happy for me?"

"Because it isn't real!"

"How do you know?" Arthur stood up. "I'm willing to forgive what you've said because you're young and you don't understand. But don't you dare tell me what's real and what's not. You met Francis briefly before you were running back home. You were just uncomfortable because it's 'unorthodox' and I'm willing to accept that. But just because it's not something you like doesn't mean you can sit there on your little high horse and tell me that my love is fake!" A heavy breath. "I haven't been in love for _years_. Why do you want to tarnish this for me? I've been so goddamn lonely, and for the first time in _months_ I can write again. And I've been writing _well_." Those green wells were ready to spill over. "You just don't understand…"

"Arthur, I'm not saying you're not in love. _You are. _But I don't know about that actor of yours…There's something that makes me uncomfortable about him, but you can't see it because you're head over heels! Can't you see I'm concerned for you?"

"Why? Why do you care? I'm just a stupid old man; let me screw up if I want to. Everyone else is alright not giving a damn! Why can't you be?"

"_Because you're my friend!_ You asked me to call you by your first name!" Alfred rose as well. "Don't you get it? I look up to you! Do I have to make it any clearer? You're my idol! Of course I care about you. Even getting to meet you is something special. I'm grateful to have you as a companion, or an acquaintance-if you don't like that word. This is like watching your favorite person get drunk and keep running themselves into a wall. Their forehead is bleeding, but they won't stop."

The men stared at one another.

"I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, and I'm certainly not on any high horse. Wouldn't you think the same thing if you were watching someone rapidly fall in love and just move in with another? _Regardless_ of gender. Just two weeks ago you adopted this hazy look in your eyes and it hasn't left since. It's only gotten worse and worse, and now you tell me that you moved in with a man because your residence was occupied by demons. Did he even question your sanity?"

Arthur did not say a word.

"I think a real friend would ask you of your mental state before simply accepting that as a truth. It's certainly something that can be attributed to mental illness. If you ask me, this Francis is using your fear to get you into bed with him. He doesn't give a damn if you're sick or hallucinating or if your apartment was indeed haunted. You're giving him what he wants and that's all that matters." Alfred blinked away the rage forming at the corners of his eyes. "Perhaps it's impolite to question you about matters going on inside your own head, but I'm genuinely worried that you might be losing your mind. No, it's not a pretty subject, and I hope to Christ that it isn't the case, because that would be hell for either of us. But at least it's occurred to me. Has your Bonfeuille even brought it up, Arthur? Just the possibility of it?"

"…No."

Mute. But only for a moment. "I'm not judging you. I'm truly not. But maybe you should just go ask a doctor, or _something_. Just to be sure you're alright. There's a possibility that what you were seeing was real. I don't doubt that. Anything is possible. But you've changed so much in such a short amount of time. Where was the serious poet I met? You've traded your morals for a cure for writer's block? Why not just sign a contract with the devil while you're at it?"

"You said there was nothing wrong with my attraction."

"There's not, Arthur. That's not what I meant. You're acting extremely rashly. And I know we haven't known one another for a long amount of time, but I can tell you're a rational man. Does this entire mess seem rational to you? Truly? Maybe the Arthur Kirkland I had in my head was different than the true Arthur Kirkland; I would have never suspected you of behaving this way."

Arthur sent his attention to the table.

"You're a grown man, sir. You can live any way you chose. This is your life, and you're right. I'm just a young man who doesn't know a thing about love. I'm just telling you, _think_. And please, be careful. I can at least see that you aren't calculating with your mind at the moment. Everything you've done has been what your heart has told you to do. I'm confident in saying that, and I simply couldn't sit back and watch as you throw yourself passionately into a well. Certainly, the sensation of flying is wonderful until you smash into the stones sitting at the bottom of it."

The Englishman's mouth opened and closed.

"I'm sorry if this wasn't what you wanted to hear. But I'm not going to give you beaming approval when I have absolutely none to spare. A true friend wouldn't do that. Nor will I disown you for your choices. I have no right to judge the decisions you make because I don't know why you made them or how you came to your conclusions. I just want you to know that I'm willing to be your friend, and if you're not too upset with me, you're welcome to come seek me out. I'll listen to you. And I'll try to help you. But I won't lie to you and I won't use you. Because doing a thing like that to someone who is clearly terrified is simply _wrong_."

Alfred picked up his book from the table.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm going to leave you alone now. I'm quite certain you don't want to listen to my _premature_ advice any longer. I hope next Saturday we can find something more pleasant to speak of."

The boy tried to leave, but the mad man followed him. When Alfred turned around, he was caught in an embrace, arms constricting around his poor bones.

"Thank you, Alfred. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Mr. Kirkland. I am as well." Alfred did not move his arms from the positions they had at his sides. "Listen, I'm going home now. I hope you can get everything worked out."

"Yes…Thank you." The young man was released.

And he walked away.


	22. Chapter 22

Arthur lied awake in an uncomfortable writhing; moving positions every couple of minutes and trying to go to sleep, but failing miserably. It was odd because the man was so exhausted but could not rid himself of the thoughts circling around his mind-an enraged hurricane.

Eventually, Francis caught him, his warm chest holding to Arthur's back.

"What's wrong, love? You've been rolling around ever since we went to bed."

"It's nothing."

"It's certainly not _nothing_. _Qu'est que t'es arrivé__?_"

"Well…I-" Arthur considered telling Francis about what Alfred had said, but could not see which choice was honestly better. He could upset his lover by telling the truth, or he could tell some off lie and continue rolling around all night until Francis threw him onto the floor. "Alfred said something today that's been bothering me."

"What did he say to you? Was it insulting?"

"Yes, but he was only trying to help me."

"Was it about your writing? Because I don't think he has any place to be speaking to you about that."

"No, it wasn't about that…He told me I was being rash by moving in with you so early. And I have to admit, I think he had a point. But that's not just it."

"Well, what else did he tell you?"

"He said-" The words were almost too large to pass Arthur's throat. He tripped over them and turned them into pulp all at once. "He said that you could be using me because of my fear- that you probably should have questioned my sanity instead of simply going along with what I as saying." A pause. "Maybe I am insane. I don't know what I should believe anymore."

Francis was quiet for a very long while. "It occurred to me that you might have been hallucinating, _mon chère_. But I didn't want to bring it up to you because we might have gotten into a gigantic fight. You don't seem mad to me, anyway. I believed you when you said that you were seeing sprits. I've seen them too. Not here, but I have." Those arms took more of Arthur's chest, feeling his heartbeat. "I couldn't tell you that you weren't allowed to stay with me. I know you didn't ask, but I had to offer. It would have been terrible to let someone so tormented go on without help, insane or not. I don't think your friend understands how much I love you, Arthur. I was quite happy to know that you were going to be staying with me, at least a little while. But that wasn't my motive."

"I'm sorry, Francis. I shouldn't have even let it bother me."

"Well, sometimes these things simply can't be helped. Anytime two people are doing something most of society considers wrong, there are bound to be critics, sitting there and telling you that you're being a fool."

"Does it bother you that I told him about us?"

"_Non_. I'm not worried about those sorts of things, darling." A kiss laid into that blond crown. "I doubt he's going to tell anyone. If he did, who would truly be concerned? Not many of the French know you, love; I'm sorry to say. They would probably look at Alfred and say, 'Arthur Kirkland who?' It would be a pain to make such a thing public, and with little gain."

Arthur said nothing, only settled into his actor's embrace.

"Do you want to be here?"

"Of course I do. I love your home, Francis. It's gorgeous. And it's so nice to be sharing a bed with someone. I can't tell you how lonesome it was before." The Englishman turned to face his opposite. "I enjoy being near to you."

"And you like to make love as well?"

"Yes. Don't be silly." Their mouths met. "It only hurt once."

Francis smiled into Arthur's lips.

"I love you, Arthur. Perhaps we did move quite quickly, but that doesn't make my feelings any different for you. You've always been one of my favorite authors…" Kiss. "Get some sleep, love. I can see that your eyes are beginning to sink."

"Thank you, Francis." And Arthur lidded his vision, sucking in the sweet scent of roses and lilac. He kissed his Frenchman's cheeks. Those bodies drew nearer and either managed to fall into dreams.

This was heaven, it occurred to that sad poet. A beautiful soul curled up at his side, a beautiful house to live in. Beautiful stories to write and plays to compose and poetry to record. This was a world dipped in chocolate and affection. This was a world of cherries and sugar. This was a world of handsome wall paper and happy paintings of nude people.

And nothing bad could occur here. Nothing ever had. There were no black shadows to run from, or harsh words spoken by men who considered themselves friends. Not even a fraction of ugliness could live here. Even the unmade bed after a night of moans was just as beautiful as it was straight and neat. Arthur did not have to react badly. In fact, he wrote a poem about those twisted up sheets and bent pillows.

Oh, how dare that Alfred.

Scoundrel.

What did he know? He had not seen them truly together. He did not know Francis for the gorgeous man he was. If anything, that moronic American was jealous. Arthur was the happiest he had ever been, and there was that blond child, trying to tarnish it. That's what babies did, after all. They took whatever they could into a palm, chewed it up, and made it perfect for the trashcan.

Oh well. Arthur could forgive that stupid creature for merely being what God had made him to be.

At least, that's probably what he would say.


	23. Chapter 23

Arthur took himself for a walk only a few days later, Florence tucked beneath his arm, her bright orange cover smiling beneath the benevolent rays of the sun. It was lovely. The clouds grinned. The sky grinned. The grass grinned. The people grinned. Today was a gift wrapped in shining golden paper, and Arthur was determined to tear it to shreds.

So, he went to the park, remaining inside simply out of the question.

A place was taken at one of those benches, and the writer observed as all those people passes him by, wearing their fantastic spring colors and dressed up in handsome gowns. Soft French poured into his ears and the entire thing was like a painting one could find in the Louvre.

The women regarded him for a few quick seconds and then looked away, whispering to one another in their polite and quiet speech, and even giggling to an extent. Arthur was not certain if they were admiring him or just laughing at him. The latter seemed to be a perfectly justified answer. After all, everyone was always laughing at him at all times. Even Francis had a good few laughs at his mannerisms.

Just this morning the Frenchman was stifling his mirth while watching Arthur cook. Somehow, he had managed to sear the edges around his egg, and when he spit it out due to the horrid taste, his companion found it to be the funniest thing in the world. Then, Francis wrapped his arms around that horrible cook, kissed his cheek and told him that he would take care of breakfast.

It took the burn away, because it was all in admiration.

But these pretty French girls-what was a man to do? What was a man even to think?

Well, Arthur certainly did not know, so he did the simplest thing he could do and opened up that wonderful little journal of his, deciding to reread a few of the poems he had written. It was not certain if they were good enough, despite the frequent encouragement from a certain Bonfeuille. No-he simply wanted to see if his own work impressed him.

So, Arthur read.

And as Arthur read, the painting continued to watch him, this time even more liberally. The ladies would stop for ten full seconds and simply regard him, wishing that he would look up from whatever dreadful book he was so intent upon. They wanted to see his face.

Yes, today Arthur looked stunning. He was going to leave their sunny home dressed in mostly black, but Francis dragged him right back in and selected a different pair of clothes from his closet. He allowed Arthur to keep his ink-black pants but would not allow him freedom until he wore the crimson blouse Francis had selected.

It wasn't as though Arthur really minded. This article that he was being forced to borrow was beautiful, and not only that, but it smelled of his lover. It was almost as though Francis was there right now, with his gorgeous scent and flamboyance. Really, the first thing a person would notice about him was his excellent taste in style.

Arthur was given a hard time for not owning anything in red.

So it went on for a good hour, with women watching and Arthur utterly oblivious, absorbed in a realm of poetry and Francis Bonfeuille. But then, there was a gust of terrible wind. And Arthur shuddered.

This gust affected every last one of his nerves, jabbing a knife into every pore of his flesh and causing his entire body to cramp up into an angry coil. He closed Florence and stood up, his legs just as mangled as the rest of his body.

Then, there was a tap upon his shoulder and a quick whispering of incomprehensible words. Arthur turned around to find that no one was there.

His blood grew even colder.

The poet debated staying, and he debated going. Perhaps he was just hallucinating. That was entirely too possible. Maybe Alfred was right. Maybe he was just mad. What had just happened anyway? It could have been a child or a prankster or anything at all.

There's a logical explanation for this.

_Stop panicking. _

But Jesus Arthur, that voice was right in your ear. And you've heard it before.

It could just be familiar. Who said it had to be the same creature?

Oh, so a different one is better? Use your head. You're not completely insane yet.

But leaving is letting them win.

We've had this conversation before.

Arthur took in a great breath and went somewhere else. He did not know where, nor how long he was actually gone until he returned home to Francis' arms. The incident was not mentioned. Not because he had forgotten, or because he didn't want Francis to know.

No. Talking about it might ruin everything.

So Arthur Kirkland pretended that nothing had happened.


	24. Chapter 24

The curtain closed and Francis met Arthur inside his cozy dressing room, removing his costume and changing into normal clothing. There was no discomfort what-so-ever, even though Francis could tell his darling author was staring at every bare bit of flesh that exposed itself to the light. Actually, it was something of a show for either of them. The silks gently peeled from the Frenchman's skin in the most sensuous manner possible, causing the one watching to gather salivation inside his mouth. Francis was sugar; bright crimson sugar that happened to be cherry flavored.

"I see you staring at me, Arthur."

"Oh? I'm sorry…" Those emeralds met the actor's gaze. "You're so handsome."

"You don't have to be sorry, _mon chère_. I don't mind in the least. Actually, it's a compliment." Those pants ate up those legs, laced in little blond hairs, and Arthur was joined on the couch, kisses at either cheek. "You're quite handsome yourself, Mr. Kirkland. Your eyes always give me such a passion. It's a good thing you picked a seat in the front. Or perhaps it's not. I always feel tempted to look at you and blow you little kisses, even in the middle of a performance." Francis stood up a moment. "To be or not to be? That is the question- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune-" And then he stopped, rushing back to the seat and touching his mouth to his company's. "You see? You're going to be my ruin and it'll be entirely my fault."

"Oh Francis, you're ridiculous."

"But you love me, don't you?"

"Well, if I have to." A smile and either pair of mounds were touching sweetly once more.

Oh, how wonderful this man was-fragrant and holding a mouth that tasted as the most saccharine of deserts. It was something worth dying for. Arthur did not want to move his lips away from the French god's. They were far too fantastic.

"I was thinking, darling. Maybe we should go out for a lovely stroll tonight before going home. I haven't got to see Paris very well at night time, as ridiculous as that sounds. But there's something different about this city every year during this time, and I haven't had my annual visit to all the flower boxes."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea. I could really use a good night time walk. Maybe we could get something to drink as well."

"Oh, I think I'm rubbing off on you, Monsieur. That sounds like something I would suggest."

"I must be rubbing off on you as well. I'm honestly surprised you didn't think of it first."

A simple grin attached to a quick smooch. "You better be careful with that unintentional charm, love. You're making me a bit mad for you and temptation is the one thing I can't resist."

"Whoever said I wanted you to resist?" That smart mouth dangled just before Francis' nose. "Perhaps it's not so unintentional after all." Touch. "Why don't we get out of here? This room is too small for the both of us."

"I couldn't agree more."

So the pair went out and got themselves two beverages. Francis had a glass of fine wine and Arthur- a glass of lemonade. As he received that happy chalice, Francis merely regarded him and smiled, trying to murder a laugh at the same moment. Honestly, there was surprise that the Englishman did not order his customary cup of tea.

And after they finished their drinks, either of them was running into the streets, ready to be acquainted with the flower boxes and speak with the blossoming trees.

It was odd how lovely that city was during the night. How a slight breeze seemed to caress either of their pores and fill their nostrils with the scent of blooms. The moon gave everything an air of beauty, and the soft colors grew even softer.

It was almost as those they were dancing in wonderland.

What an experience.

And finally, the men stopped at the park and sat upon one of those benches, hands intertwined.

It was not usual behavior for the couple. Judgment was a terrible thing to receive from anyone, especially all of society, who owned the city as the fleas owned the hide of a dog. There was no room to express their love. There was no way to avoid the ridicule and walk outside, palms kissing and cheeks close to one another. It was acceptance and privacy, or it was utter ridicule. Many elected the first of the two.

But there was no one there to cast a harsh finger or throw cruel words from their tangled mouths. How can an insult be made without anyone there to create it? The pair was comfortable beneath the street lights, inside the veil of darkened night where no one had the energy to pester them.

So hands were held. And shoulders touched. And orifices met in short passion. And after those few flaming bursts, sweet words were exchanged and the whole process went around in circles.

"I was here just a few days ago…"

"I know you were, my love." Cheek touched to cheek, rouge against rouge. "Is it prettier in the day or during the night?"

"I would have to say the night." Those eyes focused upon that lothario. "The women were looking at me, too."

"Were they now?" Peck. "I can see why. Aren't you glad I made you change clothing?"

"It doesn't really matter. It's not as though I need someone to be with. I already have someone."

"Well, it's always nice to be admired, Arthur, even if you are already in a relationship."

"Hmm…" Arthur's tired hand squeezed just a little harder. "Do a lot of people look at you, Francis? I'm sure they do. You're beautiful." Touch. "I must be lucky to have you love me. A man like you could have anyone in the entire world and I'm the one you chose."

"I don't think I could have anyone, necessarily. You'd be surprised how many people are willing to hate another simply because of appearance. When I was still in school, some of my class mates became horribly jealous. But how could they not be? All of their crushes would fall in love with them and then the moment they saw me, immediately have a change of heart." Kiss. "It got to the point where none of my friends would introduce me to the girls they had found. Oh- that sweet woman at the fabric store? Can I meet her?" Francis took a moment to bend his lips. "They would go running at the inquiry, and all of a sudden, I didn't have any friends left."

"Oh, what a _terrible_ curse."

"It was _torture._"

"So, I take it you never spent much time really studying, did you?"

"I did, if I liked the subject. I hated math with my entire heart, but literature and theatre I always did well in. That's part of the reason why I decided to become an actor. I figured, why go on and live a boring life and do a boring job I'm absolutely going to hate? I love to act, I love to read. I even love to sing. It seemed like the most obvious choice, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose I can't fault you for that. Honestly, the arithmetic classes were only a waste of time for me. I almost regret doing well in them, for the same reason. I would never use them again as long as I lived, and the complicated formulas…" Arthur regarded the sky. "Doing well isn't a bad thing, but I tried so hard just to become a writer anyway. I'm not sure what my professors were thinking. They should have had me far more focused on literature."

"Perhaps they thought that you needed a little arithmetic. Everyone realized what a genius you were and sought to help you develop your other skills."

"Francis, you can't keep being so kind to me. I'll be spoiled rotten in a few months' time. Can you imagine a man like me being spoiled rotten? It's simply not correct."

"On the contrary. I think you haven't been spoiled enough. It would take far longer than a year to make you rotten, love. You're simply too wonderful to have such a quality."

"Stop."

"You stop." Touch. "Why don't we go back and I'll spoil you more? We can spoil one another until we're unconscious beneath the sheets and it's four o' clock in the morning."

"My Francis, you don't need to be spoiled. You're already rotten."

"Oh, but being rotten can be fun sometimes, _non?_ You seemed to like my rottenness perfectly well only a few nights ago. Actually, you _adored_ it."

Arthur took a moment to think. "Alright then. Why don't we go back and you can show me how rotten you truly are?"

"_Magnifique._"

So Arthur and Francis hurried back to that wondrous little palace, closing the door well shut behind them and kissing passionately as soon as it had been sealed. They held one another closely, lips melting and taste buds grinding against taste buds until they were sore. Francis even touched Arthur between his legs, while those wretched trousers still clung to anxious thighs.

He was already so firm and they had barely just begun.

It seemed that Francis Bonfeuille was not the only one who could not resist temptation.

And as they shared mouths and touched one another's forms, not even a single worry managed to make its way into Arthur's mind. All was utterly well. The poet did not even consider the event at the park the other day, nor the fact that there was still paranoia within his blood concerning that area.

All his thoughts, all his sanity, all his intelligence was licked away by the Frenchman's sensuous tongue.

Goodness, it did its job well.


	25. Chapter 25

"I'm sorry about last week, Arthur." Alfred sat across the table and offered a petit grin. "Maybe I shouldn't be so judgmental. I just worry about my friends."

"It's alright." Arthur's brows sunk just a bit. "I understand. And you're right. It was rash of me, but I can assure you, everything is going very well. I would have left it if wasn't. I'm truly not stupid enough to stay somewhere if I'm being mistreated if I obviously don't have to." A sip of tea was taken. "I'm sorry to frighten you."

"You didn't really frighten me, sir. I just didn't want to see you get hurt. But it's truly none of my business. How has your week been, anyway?"

"It's been busy. Francis and I have been spending quite a bit of time together, and staying up late almost every night. Of course, he has to perform at the theatre, so it makes sense-but I feel terrible not going with him or going to sleep before he returns home, especially considering his generosity." A thought. "I'm behaving like a twenty year old, aren't I? Oh well. Whoever said youth was a bad thing?"

"It's certainly not." Alfred's eyes plopped into his cup. "Have you been writing lately?"

"Oh, yes. When I have the time."

"But Arthur, you don't have to go to any specific job, do you?" The American took a few seconds for himself. "What is it like, not having to work? It must be fantastic."

"Well, I do have to work, but I suppose all my fans have given me quite the comfortable life style. Or, they had. I still have plenty in the bank, but moving here and finding a new place was not all too wondrous. I was too lazy to make my apartment nice…But that's not even what you asked." A quick mirth came from Arthur's throat. "Well, I must say it's great not having to be so stressed about money. I can remember when I first started out. There were a few weeks when I could hardly feed myself. It was choosing between a place to live and a half stomach and I took the shelter. A homeless man is still homeless, regardless of how full his belly is, and I'd rather not be homeless, hungry or not."

Alfred offered a nod.

"But I won't lie. It does become somewhat boring after a while. I used to be required to write, but I haven't had much inspiration for a play, only poetry. At the moment, Francis keeps me fairly occupied, so I can't say that I'm bored, but back in London…It was terrible, really. I didn't know what to do, so I sat at my desk for hours and just thought. I tried to write, but I had nothing _to_ write, so I'd go down stairs and come back up and sit for another few hours and then go and get another snack. Can you imagine doing that day after day? I was ready to tear my hair out."

"Well, didn't you have any friends?"

"Heavens no! All the people who called themselves my friends were a bunch of morons anyway. I didn't want to spend even a lick of my time contacting those buffoons. There wasn't really a use in it anyway. I was more content wasting time within my own home than I was wasting time outdoors. Either way, I was wasting time, so I might as well do so the way I please."

"I see." Alfred smiled. "So you're antisocial, Mr. Kirkland?"

"Well, that's one word for it. I call myself a misanthrope."

"Oh, I don't think you're that bad. Maybe you simply needed to go out more often. I guarantee you; you can find people who agree with you just about anywhere. I know I've made a few friends in France, and look! I'm not even French. I'm a dirty American."

"Are you implying that the Americans are dirtier than the French? I doubt that highly."

Alfred laughed. "Well, you're probably correct. That could be why I made such easy friends with the French."

There was a slight curve on Arthur's mouth. "How about you? What is it like to have an occupation? With deadlines and that nonsense."

"It certainly keeps me busy. It's quite a tiring profession. Always running around and getting stories and trying to find stories and writing stories and getting those stories edited and finally publishing them…There's a lot to be done. It doesn't even take such a long time to write the thing itself, it's getting all the information-that's the most strenuous part."

"I'm sure. I remember working with people much like you, Alfred. It looked far more stressful than simply writing a few poems here and there. I suppose I'm lucky that the person who was in charge really enjoyed that sort of art and wanted to have a section for it. I never wanted to do the job that you have. It looked like torture."

"Well, how did you make enough money, then? Was that the only job you were doing at the time?"

Arthur laughed. "Actually, I had to be a waiter on the side. And dear God, I was terrible at it. There was so much going on all at once, and I couldn't keep track of all those orders. Luckily, I quit before they fired me. There couldn't be any bad blood about it." Those serious lips curved. "Those were awful times. I hated that job so much; there were days I even debated showing up."

Alfred simply nodded, the same expression written on his face. "Well, it's a good thing you were successful. Imagine doing that for the rest of your life."

"Oh, life isn't worth living as a waiter. I'd rather not bother with breathing if I had that sort of job."

Alfred began to speak once more, and a ringing came into Arthur's ears, every word the boy had to say distorted and mangled into strange noise. A flash of black occurred behind that American child with harsh mirth present inside the man's ears.

Immediately, the poet stood up, in a panic.

The ringing ended.

"Arthur, what's the matter?"

"It's back."

"_What's back?_ I didn't see a thing!"

"That-That thing. I have to go. I'm sorry, Alfred." Those hands were shaking as a leaf within the breeze, ready to fall directly from the branches. It was true panic, and Arthur Kirkland looked as though he was about to lose his mind and have a fit and let out a terrible howl all at once.

As Arthur made his escape, Alfred followed.

"Arthur! Wait!"

Heaving breath took over the Englishman's lungs.

"Arthur! _Arthur!_"

The opposite managed to catch up, keeping his companion's pace. He was terrified; it showed all over his visage. There was no possibility he was pretending. No, no. This man had seen something and it was extremely real. At least to him.

No more words were spoken between the two, but Alfred did manage to keep his friend somewhat at ease. He walked the poet home, and just before the door- before Arthur shut himself into Francis' realm-a newspaper was removed from the American's vest.

"Please, read this Mr. Kirkland. I hope you feel better soon."

Those green eyes, drenched in fear merely regarded the boy, and finally, after a few seconds wait, the paper was taken, cheap newsprint and all.

"I'm sorry, Alfred…I'll see you next week."

And the door was closed.

The poor child made his way back to the café, to pay for either of their drinks and deal with what could be an extremely upset French waiter. He could not help but sigh. And who would blame him?


	26. Chapter 26

Arthur stood next to the window, staring into the street. He had not moved from that room since his visit with Alfred, rushing immediately upstairs and locking himself away. Of course, Francis came inside and attempted to calm him, but hardly anything could be done. Arthur was convinced it was occurring all over again and soon enough, this gorgeous house would be infested with evil intentions and fear.

"Arthur?" A voice came from behind the door. "Arthur, please. Let me in. It's terrible to think of you so upset. Is there anything I can do?"

There was not a response. The poet merely stood in place.

"I'm coming in, Love." The door creaked open gently, and finally Arthur moved his gaze to the Frenchman. "Oh, Arthur. You didn't sleep at all, did you?"

"No…"

Francis moved in deeper, the entire room, once so sunny and bright utterly full of tension. The bed shifted at its corner as the intruder sat upon it and took his lover's hand. "Just a few days ago you were fine, darling. Come away from the window, won't you?"

And Arthur absent mindedly listened, taking a seat upon the blankets. Quickly, his body was embraced, still dressed in the same clothes he had worn the day beforehand. "Arthur, are you going to come out tonight?"

There was not an answer.

"I understand if you can't bear to go. But is there anything _you _do wish to do? Maybe we can go to the park, or get some lemonade." A sad smile joined by an even sadder kiss. "Please, say something."

"I don't know what I want to do. I think…I think I should get some sleep. I tried to last night, but my eyes wouldn't shut. I was terrified."

"Well, alright. Let's go to sleep. I have a while before I need to go back out again. Do you want me to bring you back something? I was just going to pick up a few groceries before my next performance."

"Some lemonade would be lovely."

"Oh, Arthur." Francis pushed the man onto the covers and took him inside those arms, layering pecks all about his cheeks and neck. "I'll bring you so much lemonade you won't know what to do with it. And then-" Touch. "And then maybe you'll feel motivated to go outside once again, because-" Pop. "You'll be reminded of how lovely that evening was, and drinking lemonade inside-" Smooch. "Just isn't the same as drinking beneath the stars during a lovely night."

There were not words left in Arthur's throat.

"Everything is going to be alright. I promise you, it will." Francis settled into the crook of his lover's neck. "You just have to believe it for yourself, _mon petit auteur_."

"What do you think I should do?"

There was a hum against that collar. "I think you should go outside and face your fears. But if it's too soon, it's simply too soon. Just don't wait too long, Mr. Kirkland."

Nothing.

"Now don't you worry." The first few buttons to Arthur's shirt were undone. "I'm going to take care of you, and by the time I'm done you won't have a damn thing to think about." Fabric was rolled from shoulders and cast onto the floor. "I'll fuck the sense right out of your head."

Arthur was slightly annoyed that once again, comfort from this man came in the form of intercourse. They made love when Arthur was upset. They made love when he was not upset. They made love at night and in the morning and in the afternoon. They seemed to be making love at all hours of the day. The writer wondered if sex was simply the solution to every problem with his darling. Because inside his mind, not every mishap that came could be solved with a throbbing cock and warm oil.

Oh well. At least dear Francis was skilled.

It was difficult to resist that happy temptation when such a beautiful mouth is causing all sorts of ecstasy. Whenever Francis decided to take Arthur, he took Arthur well. Cries easily penetrated the walls, and the Englishman was almost always left in a disorganized pile at the right side of the bed. Francis behaved as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And just as promised, the sense melted away as that warm tongue traced each of Arthur's hardening nipples. There were no such things as demons and fright any longer. There were only uncomfortable trousers and a handsome blond man to remove them.

_Ah._ That was the secret. Francis removed problems by creating new ones entirely and then provided the solution himself. Uncomfortable garments? He'll remove them! A disgusting need? He'll get rid of it in an instant! Heart dry of love? Francis Bonfeuille will fill it up until it's painful! Literally! And not only do you receive all of that, but we guarantee that you'll adore every minute of it!

So why wait?

Arthur Kirkland certainly could not produce a single reason.

The session ended as all of their sessions did. Arthur, sinking into a pool brimming with hot pink pleasure and Francis kissing his cheek and running off to the tub, so either of them could clean.

Those emeralds did not hold worry for quite a long while afterwards.


	27. Chapter 27

A few weeks passed and nothing improved. The apartment was set free to another, and Arthur became an almost permanent resident of Francis' home. It was very rare that the man even ventured from the front porch. Usually, he was caught within the chamber in which he was painted, or inside the bedroom he shared with his actor, staring at something or other, curling away from the windows.

Every time he looked outside, he swore he could see that thing, standing just across the street, staring back at him with its blank face. No. No eyes took a place against that visage. But two rows of tooth-pick like yellow teeth certainly did, and whenever those eyes came into the street, every last one of them was flashed in a sort of victorious pride.

As the days progressed forward, that creature could be made out better. What was before only a shadow of light grey composure was now a midnight black body, thick as tar and the same color. Claws came onto those once non-existent hands. The fangs became even more razor sharp. It even seemed to grow.

So, Arthur preferred not to see it. He also preferred not to see a doctor.

But Francis did not bother with pushing the matter. He was content to accept his companion's choices. There was no annoyance made when Arthur sat upon the couch in that room full of paintings for hours, nor was any mind paid to that fact that Arthur practically clung to that man every night after he had come home. Actually, if one didn't know any better, it could be said that Francis enjoyed these little symptoms.

It was almost taken as a compliment when the Frenchman walked into his studio and found the Englishman sitting upon his sofa, staring intently into his own green eyes, hung against the wall. It was not important that he was picking at his lips until they bled or peeling the skin from his finger nails until they were raw. Francis hardly cared about that. He simply behaved as though Arthur was perfectly sane; merely admiring the art he had created and ready to spend another night going into town and coming back to an evening of sizzling nudity.

But only one of those events occurred, usually. Sometimes, either were too exhausted and merely passed out upon the covers.

As for Alfred, the visits were no longer made outside. Francis had come to him one day and asked the boy to simply begin coming to his estate. Arthur could not make his appearance outside.

If you want to see him, you need to come in.

So, the American did, his brow beginning to drench itself with sweat. Never had he felt so helpless before, and the problem was not even his. For, as boyish as that foreigner was, he was also extremely loyal. It turned his stomach into knots to come to that glorious home and see his most favored author sitting upon the stair case, chewing upon his nails and wearing bags beneath his sights that screamed, 'I haven't slept in years!'

It was almost as though the blond child was watching his favorite pet die of a terrible illness. They were friends. They were always going to be friends. That's what father said. So how is this beautiful creature allowed to die? It was unfair for all parties.

Alfred also took an almost irrational offense at the fact that darling Francis Bonfeuille did not seem to be even half as concerned as he was. The man behaved as though this was the most run-of-the-mill behavior ever seen and nothing was wrong here what so ever. _Non. Il est impossible qu'Arthur soit fou_. Don't be so silly, Mr. Jones. This is normal. This is what happens every day in this joyous palace. Can't you see how happy he is? How _safe_ he is?

However, for love of Mr. Kirkland, nothing was said of this obvious conundrum. Alfred had come to the conclusion that becoming upset and raising his voice would only manage to upset the being even more so. He had done what he could do. Now, all that could be completed was a visit every Saturday, like seeing a sick relative in the mental ward.

_Oh_, but this place was so much nicer then a mental ward.

No wonder why Arthur did not wish to see a doctor. Pay a small amount to stay in a shimmering town house, or pay twice as much for a cold room and painful treatment. What a hard decision that was to make.

Still, nothing prevented Alfred from watching like a hawk. There was a great tension between him and Francis. The boy could tell that the lovely actor did not like him inside his space, talking nonsense to his sick lover. It felt almost as though those bright blue eyes were burning a hole within Alfred's skin whenever he reared his pretty blond head. The only reason why those weekly visits were allowed was because Arthur was very good friends with Alfred. Francis knew depriving him of friendship was simply cruel, especially when his mental state was so very fragile.

It would be like knocking over a porcelain vase intentionally.

And the Frenchman could not bear to ruin something so precious, even if he abhorred the hawk that sat upon the pedestal that very artifact rested on.

After all, breaking that treasure might very well cause the hawk to attack.

Francis never enjoyed fist fights.

There was something very strange about the entire situation, however. Arthur did not usually behave as though he was hallucinating. Whenever Alfred made his visits, everything seemed entirely normal. The author spoke with him and held a pleasant conversation, even though his overcoming condition sat against either of their shoulders the entire duration. The man simply could not glance outside or walk into the true light of the sun. Otherwise, he seemed entirely sane. There was no babble of this or that, and most of the things he spoke of made perfect sense. Arthur Kirkland was still Arthur Kirkland. It was only that the elder version of this Arthur Kirkland was horrified of light.

It all sat at the back of Alfred's mind, eating a hole within his brain. At least a few minutes of his day were spent drenched in all of Arthur's problems. The complexity of this so called mental illness. The mess of the affair the man had made with Francis. It baffled him that they had the audacity to call it a relationship.

This was fishy, to say the least.

And Alfred was determined to fall to the bottom of this jet black ocean.

He would witness this sunken ship and dissect it until all the answers were spelled out before him.

It made perfect sense why the French man did not enjoy his company. Why drinks were never brought to them when the sweet American made his way to that prison. Why glares were always shot through such handsome blue eyes. The same blue eyes Arthur could not get out of his mind.

To Alfred, Francis very well could _be_ this demon. Either captivated the poor man, in one way or another. The only difference was he preferred to actually speak of one while the other was tucked away behind a thin veil of silence. Either was real. At least, real to the poet, and either spent quite a bit of time existing within the folds of Arthur's deteriorating brain.

But there was nothing that could be done.

There was nothing anyone could do.

So every party attempted to step forward and tried desperately to get somewhere, even though the entire world was shrouded in ink, and no feasible direction was ascertained.

Oh well.


	28. Chapter 28

It was another one of those days when Alfred had come for a visit. Another edition of the paper was held within his hand and thoughts weighed down significantly upon his brow. Of course, he was concerned for his friend, as he always was when coning to see him. Perhaps he wouldn't have had this frustration about him, but Arthur was not getting better. So, as the poet's state became worse, the American's state became worse.

The door was knocked upon and Francis opened it, regarding the child as though he was surprised at his visit. It was the same mask he wore every single time the arrival was made. Every Saturday.

"Hello, Alfred."

"Hello, Francis. Is Arthur well?"

"He's about the same that he always is-the poor thing. But he's glad you're here."

"Wonderful." The sarcasm dripped like venom from the cobra's fangs. "I assume he's in your room, then?"

"You're quite correct."

And that was all the two said to one another. Alfred made his way upstairs and did not bother with knocking. He found Arthur at his place within that chair, back facing the windows, which were covered by heavy drapes. The newspaper was set upon the bed spread and the guest sat down.

"Hello, Arthur."

"Hello, Alfred."

"It's awfully dark in here."

There was not a reply. Only a pair of sad English eyes and an empty mouth.

"How have you been, sir? Have you been writing lately?"

"I've been trying to." Florence sat on the floor near his foot, her once happy orange exterior something far duller. The entirety of her had become miserable. There were no smiles written against her pages, merely the prattling of a lunatic. At least, that's what Alfred imagined. It was difficult to think that the man could still write well in the condition he was in. "But I haven't been able to come up with much of anything. At least-nothing good. How have you been doing, Alfred?"

"I'm…" The boy could not even speak.

It seemed so ridiculous that they were trying to create small talk while a whirlwind of insanity was blowing around them. Drinking tea and eating cake in the center of a hurricane.

It was stupid.

"Is something upsetting you?"

"What do you think is upsetting me, Mr. Kirkland? Just look at you." Alfred was physically uncomfortable within that room, the entire thing wallowing in disease. But no one wanted to get better. No one wanted a cure. "You used to be so bright. Now you might as well be an old woman, crippled by dementia and too backward to go outside! What are you going to do with the rest of your life? You can't spend it all in this room. It's just ridiculous to even think such a thing! Is that what you expect?"

The wilting rose did not even make an answer.

"Arthur, are you happy like this? You can't wish to live this way. I refuse to believe this was your decision."

"It wasn't-"

"Then why don't you try to get help? Why don't you let me take to see a doctor, or maybe just let me take you outside? Maybe-" A breath; a thought. "Maybe you just need to see that there's nothing to be afraid of. I go out there all the damn time, and look at me! I'm entirely unharmed. These visions of yours aren't real. Terrifying as they may be; they don't exist."

"You don't understand."

"No, Arthur! _You don't understand!_"

"What, then? Did you just come here to yell at me? Of course I didn't want this! I hate being locked away all day. But if you saw this god awful creature staring you down every single time you went out, you wouldn't bother with leaving your home either!" Arthur stood up. "You make it sound like I'm doing this on purpose! I'm not. I want to go outside more than anything, but _god damn it_, I just can't! I've tried." Tears began to sink into Arthur's cheeks. "I've tried so hard, and every time it just gets worse…"

"Arthur-"

"Why did you even bring it up? You can't just leave me in peace? Don't you think I know this is unhealthy? I want to be normal! I'd give anything to be normal! But it's not that bloody simple, no matter how badly I want it to be!"

Then, the man turned away from his pushy guest and sobbed into his palms. Entire form wrought with a kind of agony that shook him entirely. "Why couldn't you just come to say hello? That's all I wanted."

"Arthur, I'm sorry." Alfred came nearer to the distraught one, wrapping him up in a hug. "I'm simply…I can't watch you live your life this way. I've been worried sick so long."

The only response Mr. Jones received was a pair of strong English arms grasping at his form greedily and wails attaching to his neck. Every bit of anguish was felt by that poor intruder, who wanted so badly to kelp his companion, he would go as far as damaging him, if it meant that he would recover in the long run.

The sorrow came into every last vein the American had. It possessed him heavily, as a grand passion that tears an artist from society and puts him to the canvas. This feeling-it was awful. And so very helpless.

Then the door opened.

"Just what the hell is going on here?" Francis was holding a paintbrush and wore a mask of thick anger. "Mr. Jones, you've been here five minutes and already, you've managed to cause Arthur to break down sobbing! What did you say to him?"

"Oh, so _now_ you care? Your poor friend has been in dire need of help and it's only when he's miserable enough to break down that you finally give a damn. I have no idea what he sees in you."

"Take that back! I care about Arthur more than you could care about _anything_. You come here once every week and manage to upset him, in one way or another! And this isn't even your home! _Non_, you have to come into my peaceful little sanctuary and begin breaking everything in sight! Why don't you just go down stairs and start tearing my paintings from the wall while you're at it? At least then poor Arthur would be left alone!"

"You don't even want him to be better! You're perfectly content to have him broken! That way you can use him up and he won't even realize it!"

"Get out! Get out of my home and let go of him! I've had enough of you! I had had enough of you from the very start, Jones!" The grip around that paintbrush was so strong; Francis' knuckles were turning white. "Go before I destroy you! _Je vais casser la figure!_"

"Oh, you're going to break _my_ face then, are you? I've beaten up Frenchmen stronger than you and far less pretty."

"Stop!" Arthur pulled himself away from the American and stood between either of them. "Stop, please…" A heave. "You're both my friends. I couldn't bear to watch either of you fight."

Francis and Alfred stared at one another.

"I'm sorry to upset you, Arthur. I'm going to leave." A brief embrace in farewell, and the American was descending the stairs before anymore words could be thrown. Of course, no time was wasted for that Bonfeuille to come to the rescue of his upset lover.

"I'm sorry, _mon chère_." Those lips pressed sweetly to the author's forehead. "Listen, let's go downstairs and you can sit with me while I paint. That will be nice, _non?_"

Nothing.

"Come on. Let's go. You can tell me all about it, or you can say nothing at all. Whatever you like, my love."

So Arthur and Francis went downstairs and the foreigner listened while the native spoke. That already fragile mind was breaking with all the considerations that had been shoved inside it, and the entire world turned blacker. Not a sentence was spoken in that British English; lips only hung stupid about that mouth, while gazes filled with every last sentiment welling inside that head.

Francis did not pay any heed to it.

He went on painting as though the writer's friend had not been there at all. Alfred, after all, could not be banished if he had never arrived.

To even suggest such a notion was purely preposterous.

The entire day was spent in an awkward discomfort that neither wished to address.

Oh, look what you've done Mr. Jones.


	29. Chapter 29

The entire world was bathed in flowers. Vibrant little blooms lining the walls and the floors and just about anywhere one could fit. They were hot pink. Sapphire blue. Sherbet orange. Sunshine yellow. Grass green. Just about every hue imaginable. It was almost as though someone had taken a plethora of white blooms and dipped them into the most obnoxious of paint. Yet, it was beautiful.

Arthur traveled through it as though the entire thing had been made up for him. He moved from upstairs, where Francis was asleep and snoring, to downstairs, stepping upon the roses that happened to be set against the risers.

The whole house was barren aside from the nature that had overrun it. There were no guests to see that fantastic scene, at least not in the house.

So Arthur went to the garden, looking for someone to speak to.

There was hardly any surprise taken when the outside looked even more extravagant than the inside. The trees were lined in the same décor as the rest of the home, and the grass, once so trimmed and clean-cut before hand, had become a field of lotuses. They glowed as lanterns.

Arthur moved in even deeper, wanting to experience every piece of the beauty that had overtaken the entire estate.

And suddenly, there came a voice.

"It's out of control isn't it?"

The American was found, looking over the entire thing with a kind of scrutiny.

"Well, yes. But that doesn't make it bad, does it? It's so wonderful."

"Is it now? All this pollen is making me sick. I'm guessing that this isn't even the worst of it."

Arthur regarded the sky a moment, the entire plain wrapped in white. "No, I suppose you're right. It is springtime after all. There's no way that there won't be more flowers by the time the season is over."

"No."

A pause. "Alfred, are you still upset about today?"

"You are."

"Yes, I know. But are _you?_"

"Of course I'm still upset. You're damaging yourself this way." They locked stares for a good few seconds. "It's good to see you in the garden, Arthur."

"Yes. It's nice to be here. I've never seen so many flowers in my life." Pause. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones. I think you're right. I need to get out of this house, at least every once in a while. I'm just losing my mind." Lips crinkled. "And Francis-I'm sorry about him too. He didn't mean what he said. He's usually very kind-"

"To you."

"To me? Are you implying that he's usually unkind?"

"I don't look at that man and see someone utterly perfect, Arthur. I know you do, but your eyes are different than mine. Not to mention, you're entirely unrealistic. No offense intended."

The poet said nothing in return.

"Listen, just worry about getting yourself better. Go out and see Paris again. It might have changed in the month that you've been gone." The American turned. "I have to go write an article."

"Will I see you next Saturday?"

"Probably not. Good-bye."

The boy turned and began to walk away, and with him, all the flowers began to whither and switch colors. No longer were they vibrant and joyous, the pigments of brown and grey and black overtaking them entirely.

The garden died.

Paradise lost.

Alfred disappeared into the house, and Arthur began to make his way toward it himself, that feeling of bright euphoria fading. A burning candle plunged into icy water. That's what it felt like. His heart seemed to break as those blooms were turned to dust beneath his well polished shoes. There were ashes, but no phoenix was coming. In fact, each little plant was so far gone; Arthur doubted if anything could grow here again.

Everything was scorched and burned alive. Down to the soil.

Or was it?

Perhaps it had always been this way. Arthur might have only been too blind to see the true state of something he considered so happy.

Then his eyes opened.

Francis was kissing his cheeks. "Good morning, my love."

"Good morning."

"I'm going to take a short trip to get some bread. We're entirely out. Can I bring you back anything?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine..."

"Are you alright?"Smooch. "Oh, darling. Is that damn Alfred still in your head?"

Silence.

"It's better to forget these things. After all, there's nothing that can be done. He's gone and yesterday is over and tomorrow is here. Or _was_ here. It's today now." Smack. "Listen, we'll do something amusing today. I'll paint you some pretty pictures of flowers, and you can write me a poem."

"That sounds nice."

"It _is_ nice." Mouth upon mouth. "I'm going to leave now, _mon petit auteur_. I'm sorry to wake you. There must have been a nice dream in your head."

And with that, the Frenchman was going away, out on a mission to go find bread and whatever else his little heart so desired. There was an immense jealousy that Arthur was too afraid to go with him. Even from inside, one could tell that this morning was to be beautiful.

His delusional Alfred was right. His true Alfred was right.

This had to be fixed.

But before it could be fixed, Mr. Kirkland desperately needed adequate sleep.

Damn Frenchman.

So those eyes welded themselves shut once more and Arthur was sinking back into his bed of faux roses and seeing all of his faux friends, who were just as tiresome as his real friends. It hurt to think that the situation was terribly unhealthy, but Alfred was so right, the burning truth could not be ignored.

It seared his flesh and it brought heat to his eyes; it was so bright. But it snatched the pain from his opium withdrawal. He was not entirely better. On the contrary, he was had just determined to start. But something would be done. There had been far too much denial and inactivity long enough.

After all, the very first step is admitting you need to take a first step.

This _was_ a problem.

A problem the poet needed to solve.


	30. Chapter 30

The veiled window was faced. The Englishman preparing for his showdown. He felt as though he had been knocked in the mouth numerous times before hand, but had finally gathered the sense to put up his fists and strike in return.

His fingers touched to the bear glass beneath the curtain. The fabric was not yet swept aside. Arthur was still preparing himself for that portion of this grand battle between what could be his insanity or a dreadful reality no one else seemed to realize.

However, none of that mattered.

He would beat down adversity with what strength he had remaining.

His hand moved and one half of the window was occupied with the image of the street.

Yes. There it was.

Standing across that busy road, amongst the bustling people. Staring at that home without eyes. A smile came about its visage. Yellow toothpicks curving into what would have been cheek bones.

But Arthur did not stop looking. He stared back, trying to ascertain fiction or reality. Either would be an entirely acceptable answer to this ongoing inquiry. The smirk came from that mouth. The expression grew upset.

However, the Englishman did not cease.

He would be lying if Arthur said he was not terrified. Indeed, he was. But facing down this goddamn thing was far better than running from it. Inside his mind, he had come to the conclusion that he was dying no matter which step he progressed in. Here, he wilted as a flower caught within the basement. Out there, he was a bloom in the center of a drought.

But Mr. Kirkland grew sick of the basement, as anyone would. The sun might have been harsh, but it was better to have a harsh sun than no sun at all.

The creature took a step forward.

Arthur took one back.

The curtains closed.

That was enough for a single day.

But Arthur did not give up, however. Every day, he would sit by that window and stare into the street. Locking glances with the demon that had trapped him inside his own home. The prison guard would not be curled away from any longer. Arthur was too busy making a shank to be intimidated.

And during this time, Francis behaved as he always did. Watching his darling, offering support; trying to be as pleasant as he could be. Taking the trouble from Arthur's fresh with a few laps of that wondrous tongue. It was simple for the Frenchman; he completed the tasks he always completed. After all, his poet was still locked away inside his sanctuary. Casting dirty looks to the town did not remove the bars from the windows.

But the confidence was gathered to _try._

Eventually, Arthur graduated to the garden. Before hand, he could not even bear to sit outside. But there he was, beneath the drying sun, scribbling words into Florence's innards and gaining back some of the color he had lost. Francis would come see him and sit at his side, kissing his cheek, inquiring about what he was doing. Leaning against his shoulder and whispering hot little words into his neck.

Arthur had never realized how simple it was to be in the garden.

Certainly, he was still bothered by this entity. There were flashes of black. There were voices buzzing like mosquitoes inside his ear. But the thing never made a whole appearance. It was only partially there, not managing to stand before him and watch intently as he worked on his poems.

It was a step forward.

A motivation for these steps was the fact that Alfred had stopped visiting. He had gotten the picture that Francis did not want him anywhere near his home, and Arthur certainly couldn't escape to see him. Something told the Englishman that he did not wish to give up. But when a rosebush is set behind a brick wall, there is nothing that can be done. Those blooms would never see the other side as long as they were immobile.

But Arthur scratched at the wall, using every single one of his thorns. The process was not quick.

One morning, Arthur and Francis sat outside, drinking tea and regarding that pretty garden, all of its blossoms and vibrant colors.

"Oh, Arthur. I love the spring." The Frenchman was leaning back within a chair, those lucid blue eyes kept beneath shields of flesh. There was a grand relaxation about him; as though nothing could take the calm from his shoulders, even if it picked him and shook his body about.

"I think everyone does, Francis. I've never met anyone who hates this time of year."

"Hmm." A pause. "I'm certain I could think of a few."

"Name one person."

"That stupid American of yours." The actor looked over to his sweet muse. "You know, I never liked him. And look. He's gone and abandoned you."

"Francis, _you_ drove him away."

"I most certainly did not. He was welcome to come back here anytime and make peace with me, but he never bothered with even knocking on the door a second time. _Drove him away_. He ran."

"Well, you did tell him to leave your home. That's not quite the clearest invitation back. How would you feel if someone had thrown you out of their house? It wouldn't be so simple no matter how you wished to dissect it. It's not as though he can just waltz right back and pretend as though everything is alright."

"Darling, you have no idea how many houses I've been thrown out of. I've lost count, to be honest. The first house I was thrown out of was my friend Marcel's-" Sigh. "All that isn't important anyway. The gentlemanly thing to do would have been to come here the next day and extend an apology. I would have apologized too, had he simply instigated the damn thing. It takes two after all."

Arthur did not say a thing. He merely looked into the sky. "You told him you were going to harm him."

"Love, he hurt your feelings. You were standing there weeping. I can't allow anyone to damage my _darling_ Arthur. I don't care who they are. They're not going to make you cry and then turn around and call themselves your best friend. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life."

"But Francis, he was right."

"Well, what did he even say to you?"

"He told me that locking myself away was a waste. I wasn't crying because he had insulted me; I was crying because of the frustration of my entire situation."

"I'm sure he convinced you it was that way. He also managed to convince you that I'm a terrible person who's not worth trusting. He doesn't like me; that's for certain."

Again, there was not even a decent answer to that statement. Arthur merely lidded his vision.

"Arthur?"

"He's the reason I'm trying to get better."

"He's a fool."

"Well, so are you Francis."

Silence. And Monsieur Bonfeuille went away.

It had occurred to the Englishman that it did not matter what his handsome thespian had to say. The fact was, Arthur was going to get out into that street and go see his dear companion, who had been lost beneath the ugly veil of conflict. It was an unkind sort of pall, but slowly, Arthur was managing to break through it.

The drape served also as something of a cocoon. The new butterfly trying desperately to break from the hell suffocating it.

_Wings spread_

_Only to knock into the wall _

_They fight the brick_

_They bleed and break_

_They become furious _

_Despite the fact_

_They are useless_

_And finally, the insect is freed_

_To go and heal _

_From the damage that has been done _

Yes. That one wasn't so bad.

Arthur went inside to tell his lover he was sorry. 


	31. Chapter 31

Francis had gone out to run a few errands and Arthur was left to gape at the open window, tottering on acting or staying inside. It had been a while since he had seen his American friend, and the man did not feel like waiting any longer. His nails were just about ready to scratch a hole through the wall. That is, if the thing outside wouldn't come in and do the same to him.

Fortunately, a few doors were willing to assist.

Arthur had managed to sit upon the opening stairs to his home a few times during the week, but this project was such a large step. The poet of only a year going into the business of epics. But a plunge forward was a plunge forward. Certainly better than the plunge backward the man had been riding the past several Sundays.

The golden handle of Francis' happy porthole was turned and the world came flooding into that home for the first time in what seemed like months. The core kept within Arthur's panicking chest was screaming. It cried as those feet forced themselves out of that shell and it nearly burst as the first few steps were taken into the sunlight.

God, there was so much _glow_ out here. The sun was so bright, it was almost blinding.

But that did not stop the man from moving forward.

He glanced to the place his adversary normally stood.

And there he was, reduced in size, perhaps even starving. A few footsteps toward the Englishman came, and not even a moment was spent waiting. Those shined leather shoes were moving forward towards Alfred's house before any thought could actually be processed.

Arthur did not truly remember where it was, having only been there very few times, but it was all slowly coming back with each progressive tap of his fines heels. Take a turn here. Take a left there. Move past that street.

Ah.

There was the neighborhood.

The author was moving quickly and he could feel the presence of the thing behind him, but he wasn't going to bother with looking back or changing his pace. A glance was only cast toward the next direction. There was no point in living within the past, or looking back and wondering what exactly was missed.

The blond already knew what was destroyed and the lot of it was terrible. Never again would he allow himself to be placed inside that situation again. The hiding was abolished. The closet made of Francis Bonfeuille's house would be no more.

The other door was reached.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

"Hello?" The voice was familiar. "Who is it?"

But before a response could even be produced, the door was opening wide to show a pleasant American man, likely moved from his hot type writer. Those eyes were somewhat worn and immediately shot with disbelief as that familiar face was drenched in scrutiny.

"Arthur? What are you doing away from home?"

"I came to see you. I just wanted to tell you that you were right, and I'm sorry for behaving like such a lunatic…"

"Well, are you alright? Did you come all the way here by yourself?" Alfred glanced around his sudden guest to check for a supervisor, but experienced a fruitless search.

"Yes, I did." Green eyes met with blue ones. "Anyway, Alfred. I just wanted to apologize for being so much trouble. I'm still having problems, but I've been making a conscious effort to fix them. This is the first time that I went into town, truly. However, for the last few days I've been sitting outside and watching as everyone goes by."

"You have? That's great!" Sunshine burst all about the child's face. "I'm so happy to hear that you've been getting better."

"Thank you."

There was a silence. "I suppose I should apologize as well. I haven't come by to visit in a long time. I figured I should simply stop making problems for you. I had honestly thought that my speaking my mind hadn't assisted you at all. And I know Francis doesn't really approve of me being there. But I hadn't stopped worrying. Actually, I was almost certain that I would go down there by next week and attempt some ludicrous rescue mission." Mirth. "It was even worse leaving you alone. I had no idea how you were doing…"

"It's alright; I understand completely. Francis was certainly clear on throwing you out of his home. That much is undeniable. I doubt I would have felt welcome either, after having such an argument." Pause. "I'm sorry he threatened you. I never wanted anyone to get hurt over my stupidity, and I'm quite glad that it didn't come to violence. After all, it would have be my fault had you been damaged."

"I wouldn't have blamed you for that."

"Well…I would have blamed myself." A sad sort of smile worker itself about Arthur's lips. "I suppose I should go now. I'm certain you're busy with very important newsly matters."

"No! Don't run all the way back there. I haven't seen you in an eternity. You're welcome to come in. Actually, I was just about to take a rest from all that typing anyway."

"You wouldn't mind?"

"If I truly minded, I wouldn't have asked in the first place."

"Oh, well thank you. I'd love to come in."

And that was precisely what Arthur Kirkland did. A seat was taken upon the sofa and Alfred joined him only seconds later.

It was noticed immediately that no sign of that awful thing was noticed. The home was entirely like Francis' in that it was safe. There was no ill feeling welling up within the man's stomach; nothing to make his heart leap upon out of his ribcage. Nothing at all.

It then occurred to the man how nice this apartment was kept. It was a simple place, yes, and not at all like the estate he was currently residing in. But there was a definite charm to the entire thing. There were photos hung about the walls of numerous different people, with newspaper clippings to accompany them within the frames. Arthur could see how this reporter could easily make friends.

There wasn't an abundance of furniture, but what items there were within the house were quaint.

It was the space of someone just starting out with relative success.

"How have you been, Alfred?"

"I've been just fine actually. Busy, as usual, but I have nothing to complain about. I suppose I should ask you the same question."

"Well…You know how I've been. I feel like I'm finally pulling myself out of a shoebox I've been stuck in the past several weeks. It's finally occurred to me that this prison of mine, pleasant as it is, is still a prison. But it's nice to be back out in the world. It's almost as though I'm returning after a very long time away."

"I see. And how are things with Francis?"

A short hum. "They've been normal. I'm honestly a little surprised he isn't fed up with me yet."

"Has he been helping you get out more often?"

"No, not really. He's told me I'm doing well, but nothing has changed about him."

Silence for a long moment.

"Perhaps it's too early for another dosage of my honesty, but I have to say what I have to say." Alfred regarded the ceiling a moment with a fading sigh. "Arthur, I think it would do you well to go back out and find yourself an apartment once again. I'm ecstatic to see you here and truly know that your health is improving. You really must believe me when I say that. But perhaps spending a little time away from Francis will help things get back into perspective."

A nod. "You really do think he's using me don't you?"

"Yes, I do. Whether he realizes it or not. I know I can't make you cease seeing him or any of that. I'm not out to make you unhappy; I know how much you love him. But it's hard to really see what a situation truly is when you're looking through a dented lens. Every time I look back on past relationships I realize what a fool I was, no matter how much I might have loved the person. There have been times I've fallen madly in love and I glance back to the girl and realize how terrible she truly was. All her cruel behaviors and sly words were completely lost on me because all I was capable of seeing was the wonderful qualities, even if I did make a great many of them up."

Arthur only listened intently.

"It's hard to see people for who they truly are when you're convinced they're perfect."

And the poet suffered from gasping words.

"Arthur, please don't feel discouraged. I only want to help you. Perhaps Francis truly is the one you're meant to be with, but thinking he is when he truly isn't can be disastrous."

"Do you think he could be, Alfred?"

"No. I think he's far too slick and has done this to numerous people before hand. But I have no proof in that. It's only the way he appears to me. Francis very well could be the love of your life; I have no idea. I'm merely suggesting you spend time apart. And if it's true love, then it's true love and everything will work out well in the end, and if not- then you managed to avoid an ever larger train wreck."

A few moments were eaten up in the heaviest of thought. "You're absolutely right, Alfred. I really should get out and find a place of my own. It's unfair to Francis that I've taken up so much of his space. Not to mention the fact that I should be thinking rationally about this whole situation, which I really haven't been. My head has been stuck all the way up in the clouds and the only thing left to make decisions was my heart. They probably haven't been the best of decisions either."

"Well, that's the unfortunate matter. The heart isn't much good for being intelligent."

"No. It isn't."

And either sat and spoke for a good hour before Arthur thought it time to leave. Alfred had to get back to work anyway.

So the friends embraced one another, and agreed to meet again.

Then, the Englishman left his American's home and submersed himself back into the French streets, that shadow a million paces away from his thoughts. It must have been there. It was always _there_. But it was possible that the thing went into hiding, as Arthur refused to fold at its ill company any longer.

No. He was going to be healthy.

He would not sit and weep inside a gorgeous cell due to fear.

Not any longer.

And when he returned home, Francis was waiting for him, standing within the front room with a certain rage strewn haphazardly about his pretty visage.

There wasn't even a hesitation before the interrogation began.

"Just where the hell have you been?"

"Oh…I went to Alfred's house. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Francis-"

"Why did you go all the way there? I was under the assumption that you were terrified of leaving this home for more than five minutes at a time, much less running to your sweet little American for hours on end."

"Francis, it hasn't been that long."

"Oh, hasn't it been? I've been waiting here worried sick, thinking you had gone off and done something unimaginably stupid. Well, I'm not at all shocked to know I was right. Have you been doing this every time I leave? Every night, running out into the street to go see that _companion_ of yours? Oh, I know all about acting, Kirkland. Don't go thinking you can fool me on that subject."

"Francis, please! This is the very first time I've been out. _Truly_, it has. I wouldn't dare lie to you. Alfred is only my friend. I'm absolutely certain he doesn't even have those sorts of feelings for me." Lips bent. "Please understand; I simply felt horrible. He hasn't come by in such a long time and I merely went there to apologize for being such a pain. I didn't plan to stay so long."

"But you did."

"I know I did." A breath. "I'm sorry."

Francis merely took in a heavy breath. "I want to trust you, but I simply can't. Excuse me." The Frenchman moved past his lover. "I need to breathe a moment."

The door slammed and the actor, the beautiful actor, was gone.

And Arthur didn't know what to do.

So he sat down and forced his cheek into his palm.

_What can be done_

_When the bird leaves the cage_

_And the owner _

_Tears away his hair?_

_It does not matter_

_That the darling thing returns_

_The blond man_

_Still has bald spots _

_At the end of the day _


	32. Chapter 32

The night passed with Arthur sleeping alone upon the sofa, layered within a world of handsome paintings. A terrible feeling had passed over him and did not leave with the night, but another sentiment came as well. Arthur felt as though he really had not done anything wrong. Certainly, he had left the home without telling his darling Bonfeuille, but why was that such a crime?

He was a grown man. Did he really have to tell his housemate where he was going if he was going anywhere _at all?_

Arthur even allowed himself to be a little hurt over the fact that Francis could not manage to be happy for him. This was a positive step, and more than that, it was a positive step that was not used for any sort of evil what-so-ever. Arthur did not go to the American's house, remove all of his clothing and indulge in all sorts of horrifying actions. Heavens no! It was merely a visit.

It was insulting that such an accusation could even be pinned upon his shoulders. Like a million cruel jabs from a toothpick. There were thousands of little things that bothered him about the entire situation that nibbled at his flesh the entire night. Arthur was surprised he did not awake with mosquito bites lining every bare trace of his hide.

Regardless, Mr. Kirkland was a gentleman. And as a gentleman, he would swallow his anger and pride for the good of their relationship.

Arthur would apologize to Francis.

Despite the pain at the Frenchman's thin trust, Arthur could at least acknowledge that he might have wanted his companion to tell him where he was going as well. Of course, Francis was hardly his mother, and this was an innocent crime as far as crimes went, but it wouldn't have killed the Englishman to write quick note.

That might not have put an all healing bandage on this misplaced suspicion, but at least it would have absorbed _some_ of the blood.

Francis might not have gone missing all night.

So Arthur moved from his room and found his darling sitting inside that fantastic kitchen, drinking a cup of steaming black coffee. Immediately, they glanced at one another.

Well, that was at least a good sign. Arthur was so used to disputes lasting for eons, with either party simply pretending the other does not exist. And not only that, but those tender blue sapphires were not traced with hatred. They were merely hurt.

"Good morning, Arthur."

"Good morning, Francis."

And before the Englishman could apologize, the opposite began.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I was simply so worried about you. I had thought that maybe something terrible had happened because you seemed to refuse to leave the house by yourself. Maybe you had sliced open your hand and had to go to the hospital, or maybe you had fallen down the stairs and broken a leg." Blond brows drooped. "So, with those kinds of thoughts in your head for about an hour, you can imagine how concerned I was."

"It's alright…Honestly; I should have written you a note or something of the like. I could have waited, but when you haven't gone outside for a month-well. I hadn't even thought of that. I had simply wanted to go so badly there was nothing else on my mind." They regarded one another. "I felt as though I owed an apology of sorts to Alfred. I know you don't like him, but he is my friend, and he had been worried about me, even if he didn't come around."

"That doesn't sound like a very good friend to me."

"I know, Francis. But he's my only other companion. It's merely the both of you."

The Frenchman thought a moment.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to cause any upset. I simply hadn't thought out my actions."

"It's alright, Arthur. But I have to know something and please be honest. Did you two kiss or anything at all?"

"No. Why would you even think that? It's like I said, I really don't believe Alfred has that sort of attraction to me what-so-ever."

"I think he does."

"Well, for Heaven's sakes, _why?_"

"Because, Mr. Kirkland, whether you notice it or not, you're a very handsome man. I don't see how anyone _couldn't_ be attracted to you. So, it makes me worried that you went to another's home for such a long while, doing lord knows what. This Alfred certainly likes you; to what degree-I don't know, but in short, I don't trust him."

Arthur was not certain of what to say.

"I'd be happier if you promised me you wouldn't go back there."

"Francis, you can't expect me to-"

"Arthur, you can see him again. Just as long as you're not locked away inside his home. He's welcome to come here. But I'd be incredibly uncomfortable knowing you were going over there."

"Are you certain?" Those brows were doubtful. "That seems a little unfair, don't you think? I'm not sitting here telling you that you're not allowed to go to your friend's houses and you're _far _more attractive than I am."

"If you're not fucking him, then what's the problem?"

Arthur merely stared at his counterpart. "Well, fine then. I won't go over there if it makes you so uncomfortable, as ridiculous as I consider this bargain of yours to be. I love you. That's the only reason why I'm agreeing to this."

"_Merci_, Arthur." The man got up and embraced his poet, leaving little kisses all about his face. "I'm sorry I make you angry." Lips met. "But I adore you. Please remember that. I'm not certain what I would do without you here."

Again, just like the sucker he was, Arthur was drawn back in and was French kissing with that gorgeous man before sane thought could even occur. Suddenly, not a damn was given about the American and all of the Arthur's happiness depended entirely upon Francis' bliss.

But it was hard to be unhappy with a strong hand beneath your chin and a handsome man sucking upon your tongue.

Oh, what a mess.


	33. Chapter 33

So a few days passed, and Arthur considered leaving even more heavily. Every time he turned his back on Francis, it felt as though the man was watching him with a heavy intent. Was Arthur going to do something rash?

The entire home was fraught with a slight paranoia. It wasn't too obvious, but the poet felt it creeping beneath his skin and causing his hide to ache. It was an irritation. A group of tiny bug bites that grew into a massive wound. Eventually.

They weren't quite there yet.

There was still love for one another, of course. It wasn't as though this mild distrust caused all of that affection to simply vanish. It wasn't that poisonous. Arthur and Francis still curled around one another at night and hooked their mouths together and held one another's naked forms closely as they possibly could. Not much was falling apart.

However, the thought of leaving always sat at the back of Arthur's mind. He was beginning to become paranoid about the paranoia. Perhaps he was just imagining this. Or perhaps he was simply not seeing the entire iceberg, only the very tip of it. This slight discomfort could have been imagined or partially hidden. Arthur truly wasn't sure which theory to go with. Either could be right.

And when his mind wasn't in this conflicted state of what was what, his mind was in a conflicted state about all that was outside. Fear still breached the chambers of his heart when regarding that horrendous shadow; it had yet to go away. But it had certainly lost its intimidation.

Arthur would sometimes return with scratches upon his back, and once, even a bite mark upon his wrist, (neither of these things were shown to the Frenchman) but the thing failed at scaring him away for good.

A cat could do the same thing.

And honestly, it only hurt for a few minutes.

It seemed stupid to run in fear of something that only managed to intimidate. Yes. It was frightening, but turning in an entire life simply because a creature stood outside and looked menacing-it wasn't the best way to go about things. After all, Arthur Kirkland would rather live with bites and scratches than not live at all.

So, one morning, Arthur took himself on a walk, looking at all the lovely buildings around him and searching for an apartment at the same time.

It was an absent minded thing; nothing worth taking too seriously, but signs were searched for, and Mr. Kirkland was considering prices within his head.

Alfred's words were taken right to heart. Francis should probably be given his privacy back and Arthur should live on his own as a grown adult. This situation was unhealthy. It was not something as a glowing flower, growing naturally upon its own soil. No. This was a flower buried beneath too much love and soil and fertilizer and water. It was tall, but certainly broken in more than one or two places. The poor thing was between choking and drowning.

So those places were looked at.

Where would you like to live, Arthur?

Remember when it was simple? Remember when you went down to the café and thought and wrote instead of being tangled in this grand mess of love?

Those days were nice, weren't they?

Arthur let out a petit sigh.

Time apart would certainly allow that blossom to develop the proper way. There was no certainly left of anything at all. Perhaps he was insane. Just sitting at home in London with a terrible fever and his closest English friends gathered around him, wondering when this odd dream-coma would end.

But it felt real.

Anything could feel real when you try hard enough.

Arthur ceased walking when he came across a lovely street, full of empty little flats. Oh, there were those neat little advertisements everywhere. The buildings were clean; the plants around the sidewalk were happy; everything was even painted a sweet color. Green and pink and yellow all mixing together to make for a dancing image.

Arthur was not usually the sort to settle within a pink home.

Or a yellow home.

Or green home.

But damn, if these weren't the sweetest little places he had ever seen. They were certainly worth a look.

So Arthur ascended those stairs and spoke to the people who were running this strange little show. They told him all about it. The cost. The weather. The neighbors. The entirety of this place within only a few minutes of his time.

Then, he looked around.

Empty of furniture. Uninhabited.

No Frenchmen.

This might be worth the consideration.

No, it was certainly worth the consideration.


	34. Chapter 34

Arthur lied across from Francis, buried deep within those lovely blue eyes and struggling to find the words to say what he wished to say. Their hands were clasped together, and the Englishman was certain his companion could feel every off surge running through his veins at that moment.

"Francis, I think I should move out."

That suggestion was met with a sort of silent scrutiny.

"Listen, I just feel awful about staying here for so long. The agreement was when I moved in that I would simply stay until I could find a place to stay. I think it's only fair to give you your privacy back and to allow you time away from me…I'm certain I drive you mad, at least occasionally."

Still, there was nothing that could be expelled from Bonfeuille's aching chest.

"That, and we've been seeing so much of one another. It might be better for the both of us to allow a bit of absence in, don't you think?"

"Are you tired of me, Arthur?"

"No! No! Of course not. I love you, Francis. I just can't-" A struggle for words was waged. "I can't stay here forever. To do so would be unfair to you. I feel as though I'm stretching the limits of our friendship by staying so very long, as though I've overstayed my welcome."

"But Arthur, you haven't."

The man did not know what to say.

"Do you want to leave my home?"

"Well, I am a grown man, Francis. I think it should be that I support myself. I'll certainly come to visit-frequently at that. But there's no reason for you to have to care for me as a child. And there's no reason why I should expect you to. You don't deserve to be my caretaker, even if it is a job you wish to do."

"Yes, but why are you moving out, Monsieur Kirkland?"

"Haven't I told you?"

"No. What is it really?"

"_Really? _Just that, Francis. It's about time I got back to living as a normal man. I'm not so incredibly sick any longer. I can function just as a regular person now. Certainly, I still see things from time to time, but my state has greatly improved."

"I think you want to leave me."

"Well-"

"Just admit it, Arthur. If you want to leave because you need a break from me, then simply say so. Don't lay here and pretend you're doing this for _my_ sake; you're clearly not."

"Do you feel that I've used you, Francis?"

The pair stared at one another, gazes blending into gazes and causing a near chemical reaction. Hearts beat faster within ether of their chests, thumbing upon the gates of the ribcage and preparing for a battle neither truly wished to fight.

"_Non_. I don't think you've used me. I simply feel as though you're trying to lie to me, to make leaving seem as though you're doing this for my sake, when in reality I'm simply driving you mad."

"Francis! That's not it! Why won't you listen to me? Look, I'll say what I really mean. You're right; this isn't entirely for you, but it's not entirely for me either. I honestly do feel as though I've stayed long enough and remaining any longer would be a harsh injustice to a man I consider to be one of my greatest friends. But I've been around you so often, I feel as though I might not realize what true reality is. You're too perfect. I can't find a damn thing wrong with you, and with a mindset like that, it's difficult to consider this a healthy relationship by any means."

Stares and speechlessness.

"Francis, I love you. And I want us to have a good bond. There shouldn't be any worship here. You should find a million faults with me and I should find a million faults with you. That way, we can take a glance at one another and acknowledge what we have for what it truly is, not sit there and say everything is wonderful and perfect. Because when a large problem does come up, which it will, we won't know what to do because we've never dealt with the _little_ problems. _The slight annoyances._ Do you understand what I'm saying to you? If we can't see each other for what we truly are, we're entirely ruined. There's no chance for us, even if we are happy now."

That gorgeous face only reflected sadness.

"I have no intention of breaking it off with you. I simply…"

"Right." Francis turned upon that bed, uncomfortable. Upset.

"Fran-"

"_Non, Je comprend, Monsieur__. __Je ne veux que être seul_."

Arthur did not know how to apologize. He felt as though he had just stabbed the man straight through chest, right into his bleeding heart. Now, he lied dead before him and the blade was still wet with fresh crimson and hot guilt.

But he hadn't even done _anything_.

_Grâce à toi Arthur, Francis est mort__._

There was a stifled sigh as Arthur got up, following the request of his companion, who did not even have it inside him to muster a few English words. There wasn't even a lick of certainly if the man would get out of this misery he had curled himself into. It was almost as though Arthur was regarding a stone statue of a god gone broken by Medusa's cruel stare.

"I'm sorry. I'll go now. I only want you to know that I love you. I really do mean that." A kiss was branded upon Francis' handsome cheek. "If you wish, I'll come back. Just find me down stairs if you get lonely."

But the corpse was still a corpse. Reanimation couldn't occur due to a few kind words.

What was this?

A novel about miracles?

So Arthur, swallowing his defeat with a sore throat, removed himself from that pleasant little room and placed himself within that parlor of glorious paintings, all twisted and mangled by the night. And Francis, who rose slowly from the bed, walked to the window and removed the curtains from the cool glass.

And he looked outside, past the spot where Arthur's demon usually stood.

Francis stared, as though he could see the creature for himself.

As though it was the cause of all his problems.

The beautiful man remained a good minute and placed himself back upon his empty sheets, next to the indent of where his lover used to be; it was unpleasant.

Oh, Arthur couldn't leave. _He just couldn't_.


	35. Chapter 35

Francis eventually forgave Arthur and Arthur eventually moved out. They said their good-byes, kissing one another just before that poet went from the front door, and all was accounted for. A happy pink apartment waited for its new resident across town, and a visit was scheduled for next weekend, just after a visit was planned with Alfred.

This get together was not mentioned to Francis, however.

He was upset enough as it was.

So Arthur traveled to his new pink flat, with its empty walls and its empty rooms and its untouched feel. Oh, it was just like home. But instead of a true bed as the last time, Arthur had settled with a mattress being sprawled out upon the base of his room. There was a pillow his lover had given to him, as well as an old blanket he had stowed away within the Frenchman's closet for a very long time.

And it was comfortable.

The poet had forgotten how nice it was to be alone, something he only really owned in short supply a few days prior. It was nice not having to watch the actions taken at every corner, trying to appease an upset actor. Francis truly did not want his darling little muse to leave. There was one point when the man was nearly reduced to begging, but refused to go that far himself.

Hell, Arthur was nearly sane.

Nearly, of course.

One fine morning he walked outside, a cup full of tea inside his hand and sat upon the front steps of his porch, regarding the thing that had chased him away and chased him out and chased him here. Then he took a sip.

There was little fear left. Almost as a child learning to walk. The terror of falling is so very strong at first, and then one falls and realizes it doesn't involve so much pain. Then comes the true strolling, when no more stumbling is involved.

He didn't even flinch when the shadow moved toward him.

It was so much weaker now. Its body had returned to grey, and its teeth even looked slightly duller. The claws were no longer claws, and a grand part of intimidation had fled.

Another sip.

The damn thing even joined him.

Arthur looked to his side, placing the porcelain cup at his side.

Neither said anything for a very long time.

And then it spoke.

"Why aren't you afraid of me any longer?"

The mouth did not move; but a voice rang from the throat. And Arthur picked it up, clear as a bell.

"Well, that's simply how it goers, I suppose. I can't spend my life running from one thing or another. Eventually, you have to sit up and face your problems. I can't hide in Francis' home and expect things to become better. I might be insane, but I'd rather be insane outside than insane and imprisoned."

Pause.

"Listen, it's nothing to take personally. I'm certain you could make a few children wet their pants if you really wanted to. You're frightening; I'm simply done with _being_ frightened."

"And what about Francis?"

"_What about Francis?_ What do you mean?"

"He's upset."

"What does that have to do with anything? Of course he's upset. He's always upset. But I don't need him any longer, and he certainly doesn't need me there any longer, taking up space and being a pain in the ass. I'm done with playing the burden." Sip.

"He needs you."

"He'll be fine; really."

Nothing was said.

"Was that all you came over here for? Well, I'm going to write. Good-bye." And Arthur stood up, tea and all, and went inside, as though speaking with demons about a relationship crisis was a completely normal event. The door closed. And Arthur kept his promise.

Arthur wrote a story.

A very short story about a rabbit that faced down a tiger.

And the tiger was never to be seen again after being defeated.

After that fine day, the poet was freed of his assumed lunacy. Everything was back to the way it was when he first arrived in France. Arthur was his own person; not the property of some handsome actor, or the slave to a horrible creature with even worse teeth.

They never saw one another again.

Oh, how lovely it was to be healthy.


	36. Chapter 36

It had been a few days since Arthur had seen Francis, and the man was perfectly content. The Englishman's heart had been so filled; it was tearing at the seams. Now, that chest was allowed to empty and Arthur felt absolutely fine.

So, he broke his stupid promise to Francis and he went to visit Alfred.

It was Saturday after all.

The knock occurred softly against the door.

And what do you know? It opened right up.

"Hello, Arthur. Have you come to surprise me?"

"I suppose I have, Mr. Jones. That is, unless you're unwilling for a visit. I just wanted to drop by and say hello. It seems as though it's been a long while."

"Well, it has been." The young man stepped aside. "You're welcome to come in, Arthur. I was simply doing nothing."

"Perhaps it's fortunate I decided to come then." There was a slight smile on the poet's face, and those brightly shined shoes made their way through the threshold.

It was at this moment that Alfred took the entirety of his friend into consideration. Something about him seemed incredibly new. No more distress made his face churn and writhe and a great calmness possessed him. The man even had a more handsome appearance with the misery lifted.

"You seem much happier, Arthur."

"Oh, yes. I followed your advice." They looked to one another. "I moved out of Francis' home. And now I live in a handsome apartment not too far from here. Don't have any furniture. Just a mattress and a few pieces of silverware and what-not. But I'm feeling much better. Definitely less insane."

"Well, that's wonderful to hear."

"You know, Francis even told me not to come here, but I'm allowed to do as I please. I'm not a child and Francis isn't my mother."

"Certainly not. But are you sure he won't be upset?"

"He's not going to find out. So no; there's no possible way for him to react badly."

"That's one way to go about it." There was a naughty smile about the American's face. "You've certainly gotten more daring since I've seen you last. What's changed? Just that you've gotten out of that stupid Frenchman's presence?"

The Englishman even laughed. "I suppose so. Everything has gotten better since I took my own place. I've even stopped being bothered by those awful creatures-or _creature_, I suppose. As I said, I've been less insane. And, not only that, but I've been writing as well. Oh, I can't tell you how lovely that is. I was attempting to produce something or other before hand, but it always turned out to be utter shit. I'm telling you- that actor is almost like opium. It's wonderful at first and then a month later you're losing your goddamn mind trying to figure out what exactly happened three days ago…"

"Have you ever tried opium, Arthur?"

"Heavens no! I'm not _that_ daring. I can barely move out of an old lover's house and you're accusing me of being an opium addict." Mirth. "Oh, that's ridiculous."

"I had to wonder. The description you gave really seemed to fit the cycle."

"Well, have you ever tried opium, Mr. Jones?"

"Of course not." There was a sunshine flavored grin about the boy's luminescent face. "I'm just a silly American who writes silly stories for a silly paper. Does that sound like the sort of person who would be smoking opium regularly?"

"I don't know; anyone has the capability to be an addict. It can't be that difficult."

As they spoke, either were moving nearer and nearer towards the sofa, eventually taking a spot against its worn, yet incredibly comforting cushions. Upon the arms, one could see where the fibers were wearing out, stuffing leaking from thin material. But that merely served to give the ancient thing character. This couch- it had seen some shit.

Such an article was something to be proud of, but only if the owner had kept it such a long time. Buying a sofa in such a shape was nothing but shameful.

"Alfred, how long have you had this couch?"

"A few years now. I got it when I first moved to Paris. I bought it used, but it wasn't this beaten up then."

"So, what happened to it? Fifteen years in a matter of months takes effort, wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred shot that horrible little curl toward his guest. "I should really kick you out of my apartment for saying that, Mr. Kirkland. You come in here, entirely unexpected, and the minute you sit down you're insulting my couch after asking an innocent little kid like me if I've tried _opium_. You're quite piece of work, and you're lucky I like you so well."

"Maybe you're the lucky one. It's not every day that you have Arthur Kirkland sitting on your century old sofa."

"Oh, excuse me your _majesty_. I didn't realize what a _privilege_ I had."

"No, no. it's fine. I understand; truly. Not many people do."

"Are you certain you bought yourself another apartment? You're behaving like a pretentious old homeless man who's convinced he's related to royalty."

"Maybe I'm just hallucinating. But my clothes aren't all too tattered yet, are they?"

"No, I suppose they're not. They look quite nice, actually. Well. For a homeless man."

The author merely laughed. "You be careful, Alfred. One of these days I'm going to write a book about you, and it's not going to be very flattering. I can do that, you know."

"Perhaps that would be a good thing for me. After all, libel can be flattery as well. You're bothered by me enough to produce a mess of lies. I'm obviously doing my job."

"I won't then."

"Please do. Maybe you'll actually get my work published. The population will be so offended by me, they'll have no choice but to see the horrendous things I have to say."

"You've already _been_ published, Alfred."

"Oh _please_." Those pretty blue gems rolled. "Published. Right. I don't think tiny newspapers full of nonsense really count. Anyone could be published in a paper like that."

"Excuse me; that's certainly not true. I read through an entire edition and I thought it was wonderful. Granted, I couldn't understand most of it, but it was still splendid. Your writing is just fine, and if you truly want to be famous, then you should take a boat over to England and start writing your little heart out. After all, the French won't appreciate your work properly. You should really stick to your native tongue, as spectacular as your _Français_ is."

"Thank you, Arthur."

"Of course." A brief kiss to the cheek. "Don't even concern yourself; you're doing a fine job, Alfred."

Oh, Arthur realized what he had done. He almost did it intentionally. All the entertainment came when those sweet American cheeks lit right up and a look of blooming confusion made itself dominant all over the child's eyes. It was as though the elder man had simply taken a pot of red ink and threw it all over his opposite's visage.

Oh, what a mess.

It got worse when the American decided to kiss back.

And then the train derailed.

In a quick fever, either of them was smashing their lips together in wild passion and pulling each other in closer. Sparks lit up the whole damn room and hearts beat in an off rhythm, entirely erratic. That tiny peck-that was a chain reaction. Alfred was an open vat of gasoline and all Arthur had done was light a match.

Hands held the sides of faces and that cluster fuck tangled even more so than it had.

Tongues tied together. Saliva was shared. And the poor, innocent lad was pushed into the couch's beaten up rim with Arthur shoving his sickly sweet experience right down that pink throat.

And goddamn it felt good.

Then it stopped.

Neither had breath left in their lungs.

"I'm sorry…" Alfred's chest rose and pushed gently into Arthur's. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me."

I've liked you for a very long time.

Loved you, even.

Your green eyes are intoxicating.

And you're so damn handsome in no matter what you wear.

You don't know it.

But everyone else does.

That's what his expression said.

"That's alright." A peck to those soaking mounds. "Listen, I'm going to leave you alone now."

"No-please. I've missed you." Those blond brows furrowed. "I won't do that again-" Those spectacles were bent. Arthur took a moment to adjust them. "I just-"

"I know." Peck. "I'll come back next Saturday, but you should sort this out, don't you think? The Bible says-"

"I don't give a _damn_ what The Bible says!" A great breath was taken. "Don't you understand? I can't bear to see you go back to that stupid French bastard again. He doesn't care about you-"

"I know."

"_Stop saying you know!_"

"Alright." Arthur rose from the century old couch and its unfortunate owner. "I won't say that anymore. I'll see you next week, Alfred."

"Why are you going?"

There was not an answer.

And the angered American could not muster any words. That entire visage was a pool of solid emotion. He was simply too young to know how to express all of it properly. His sweet, saccharine eyes could only beg the man not to go.

But Arthur did not have a choice.

"Listen, you think about what you want to say. Then you can tell me when I come back next week."

"Fine…" Alfred gave up. "Fine."

"Good-bye, Mr. Jones."

"Good-bye."

And the door closed behind the poet.


	37. Chapter 37

After a few more days of solitude, Arthur came by his lover's door and paid a visit. There was a slight guilt at either crime committed. He had not seen his supposed darling Frenchman in what most would consider a long while, and he had kissed another man without uttering a word about it.

At least Arthur told someone the truth.

Francis certainly would not know.

So there was nothing to be upset about.

The porthole opened and the actor regarded his poet with a sad gaze.

"Hello, Francis."

"Oh, Arthur…I missed you. Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, darling. I was off getting settled. You know how these things take time." A kiss to that cheek, overrun with blond whiskers. "How have you been? You look somewhat tired."

"I haven't been able to sleep with you gone. It's odd having such an empty bed. I can still see the space your body left." A kiss in return. "Would you like to come upstairs? I feel quite cold."

"Don't tell me you're sick, Francis."

"I'm not sick; I'm merely cold. Perhaps you'll take a nice warm bath with me."

"That sounds lovely." Their hands joined, at Francis' need. "It has been a little strange sleeping alone. But I think I have some very good news."

"What is it, Arthur?"

Oh, how exhausted that beauty was! Francis appeared to be an insomniac that had not slept for numerous days and spent all his time digging ditches. There was not a piece of him that did not look worn and beaten. An old piece of leather that hadn't gotten a decent break for five entire years.

"Well, I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary what so ever. It's almost as though everything is back to normal. I faced my fears and now they no longer exist. Isn't that wonderful?"

There was a shock that came over the man's tired blue sights. They were drooping, but something within them was extremely alive, and it was not happy. But that brief tinge of sudden hatred was covered up by a forced sweetness.

"Truly? That's wonderful, Arthur."

"What's wrong?" It was unfortunate that the Englishman caught it.

"Nothing, my darling." Kiss. "I simply wish our relationship wasn't about you all the time."

"What? That's hardly fair, Francis. I had lost my mind. I thought you would be happy because it really _isn't_ about me any longer." They stared, letting go of palms.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I simply-I haven't slept in a very long time. Not well, anyway. I've only been getting a few hours sleep every night, and sometimes it becomes unbearable and I have to drink myself to sleep. But I wake up in an even more exhausted state…"

"Oh, Francis. That's horrible. Don't tell me it's actually true."

"Why would I waste my time lying?" There was a snap in his voice; irritation took him over. "Listen, why don't you just come back? It's so lonely here without you." And then it was back to the sugar, to make up for that sudden bitterness. "Can't you see that I'm unwell?"

Arthur was not certain of what to say.

"Why won't you come back? Are you cheating on me?"

"Of course I'm not cheating on you! I love you; _je t'aime_. I don't know how else to spell it out for you. Listen, I'll think about moving back in, but it would be better for the both of us if we spent just a little time apart. We've been over this."

"Better? Do I honestly look _better_ to you?"

"Fran-"

The Frenchman sighed. "I'm sorry…I'm just-I'm irritable. I haven't had a decent rest in at least a week, since you've left. I can't sleep; I can't act. I can't even draw any longer. You should see how awful my last few paintings have been." A grand breath. "I'm not certain what I'm to do now that my muse has left me. It's like you took the sun and the moon with you and I'm left with absolutely nothing. The whole damn sky is dark."

"It surely can't be that bad…"

"How would you know? You haven't been here at all. But then again, if you were, I wouldn't be in this horrid state."

"Well, why don't we go upstairs and take a nice bath together and then I'll sleep at your side, for tonight."

"Only for tonight?" The man looked as though he was ready to _plead_- so long as Arthur Kirkland did not leave his home.

"Yes, Francis."

"_Pourquoi__?_"

"Because, I have to get back and write. I hate to tell you, dear, my efficiency is just awful with you around. You're such a wonderful little distraction of mine." A little smooch to the other's nose. "Everything will be fine. I promise you. It might be best for you to learn to get along without me, because I can't be here forever."

And nothing was said in return. Just disappointment sinking into already sunken-in eyes. The man was tired. That much was certain. And Francis' beauty was marred with such a hackneyed expression. Every movement of those limbs was wrong and mangled. A bird with a broken wing launching itself from a window.

It was both sad and hideous to watch.

But Arthur still took Francis upstairs, and they filled the tub up to its rim. Then Francis sank in. And Arthur sank in. And they relaxed against one another, the beaten actor falling to sleep within a matter of moments. And the poet regarded him, with a gaze wrought with a mix of both sympathy and disgust.

Goodness, he has gotten so _ugly_- an adjective that did not belong in the same sentence with the name Francis Bonfeuille. But goddamn, if it wasn't _true_. His lips were dry. His skin was ruined. His eyes lashes were tangled up into knots. The bags gathering beneath those once happy jewels seemed to go on forever. Every last wrinkle having another three to follow it. On top of that, his blond hair looked fried-even worse than his own, which was simply _impossible_.

The worst part of it was that Arthur did not want to stay. He was rather enjoying his time alone-not being held to the hairy chest of his overly kind lover. The freedom tasted even better than the wondrous scent drifting from Francis' flesh, which was also ruined.

But there was feeling that his boot had indeed crushed this delicate flower.

Arthur had nearly murdered the rose.

But those petals still held a bit of color-what sections of them were not drenched in syrup-like blood.

So, they removed themselves from the tub and placed themselves beneath the covers.

And for the first time in a week the Frenchman slept. And for the first time in a week, Arthur did not. 


	38. Chapter 38

Francis began to follow Arthur. Nearly everywhere he went as well. Into cafés, into streets, into his own pink apartment. And he did this so well that Arthur did not even notice.

Yes, the Englishman would return to Francis' home and they would speak and make love as they always did. Nothing had changed through those delicate green eyes. Nothing what-so-ever. To him Francis even began to look slightly healthier, simply because he was no longer being so ignored.

But there could be nothing further from the truth.

Francis Bonfeuille was losing his goddamn mind, if he had not lost it already.

Most of his days were spent obsessing over that author. When he was not chasing him all about Paris, he was sitting in his parlor, drawing the man. Painting his image all over the walls. And each one got both better and worse. There were more colors, more vibrant emotion, more passion poured into those paints. But goodness, if they were not frightening at the same time.

Dear Francis was fraying at the edges and he was doing it to himself.

The day before Arthur's promised visit to his American companion, the poet made his arrival at the door step of that ludicrous Frenchman, who was upstairs trying to sleep. The guest did not bother with knocking, as he was simply welcome, and made his way to that chamber filled with pregnant thought and a mad insomniac.

"Hello, Francis."

Oh, how the roles had changed. Now the one who used to have the hallucinations was waiting on the one who was making his own. Francis had become sick. And it was making poor Arthur exhausted, despite the fact it had only been two weeks since this lunacy began.

"Hello, Arthur." That body shifted beneath the covers, making room for the intruder to lie down.

"How have you been?"

"Tired."

"Are you still acting?"

"_Oui._"

Nothing more was said, and Arthur lifted his side of the covers and took a spot against that worn mattress. It was the same spot he always took. The same spot with his indent left from so many nights of use.

No time was wasted; Francis wrapped his body right around the poor insect who had wandered too deeply into his web. And that mouth began to work at his neck, gently sucking and creating another bruise that would need to be covered up when the victim left.

Arthur's flesh was sore.

But asking the exhausted creature to cease only seemed to be cruel.

If Arthur was required to be a pacifier, he would be a pacifier.

Think of everything this man has done for you.

Have you forgotten?

So, the chew toy remained, allowing his darling to do all the things he adored doing. Francis devoured that hide, kissed the most sensitive parts of that corpse, spread those tired cheeks and claimed that shell once more. Because he had to establish for the fourth time this week that Arthur belonged to him. Then Francis finished and laid unconscious for hours, with Arthur's back adhered to his chest. No. He was unable to move. Nothing would save him from this unhealthy bond of theirs.

Tomorrow was considered. It was always considered, but goddamn it was heavy today.

Tomorrow, Arthur would see Alfred.

And tomorrow, more of those terrible problems would be sorted out.

What a mess.

What a conundrum.

What was a poor man to do?


	39. Chapter 39

Arthur escaped the sleeping Francis and managed to get to his friend's home at the right time. Well. He was five minutes late, but that was hardly anything at all. Strangely, there was not as much panic spreading throughout him as he had suspected.

Then Arthur wondered why there should be panic.

He was uncertain about what was to happen, but that thought could be applied to living through every day. You step outside; perhaps God decides to throw a meteor at you. Of course, that was unexpected, even though you were simply going for a nice stroll and possibly to buy yourself some lemonade.

What was there to fear?

What happened would happen.

A knock pressed against the boy's door and the poet waited patiently for an answer.

Oh, there it was.

"Hello." Alfred came out from behind that barrier and gave a half hearted smile. He was grinning through a grand mass of cruel thoughts and uncertainty. Who could be truly happy with that anchor?

"Hello, Alfred. How have you been?"

"I've…I've simply been wanting to speak with you. Please, come in. Let's get right to business."

"Yes. That doesn't sound like a bad plan."

So either landed upon the couch in a kind of silence, as though they were criminals being marched to their respective firing squads. They both knew it was ridiculous to treat such a conversation with a grave tone, but these things could not be helped. This was a matter of importance.

"About last week…I'm sorry." It was Alfred who began. "I'm not certain what I was thinking-actually, that's a lie. I knew exactly what I was thinking. But I shouldn't have gone through with it and that's what I should be apologizing for."

"Well, what makes you say that, Alfred?"

"You've already got a lover, as much as I _cannot stomach_ him. It's wrong to be-to kiss you. Regardless what I think of Francis. I can't take you from him. That's not right and it makes me just as bad as he is, if not worse."

Arthur placed a palm against Alfred's leg, in comfort.

It was odd, but it had not occurred to him how very much he _liked_ this boy. Alfred was simply good, and when he wasn't, he always tried to be. He had never stopped caring, and was a wonderfully loyal friend. Sometimes, Arthur wondered if Francis _was_ indeed using him, as Alfred had made some excellent points.

Yes. A true friend would ask about his sanity.

A true friend would attempt to get him help. At least ask.

A true friend would have assisted with facing those god-awful fears.

And Francis did not do any of those things. Simply, he sat idly by as Arthur beat down those demons with a harsh stare and ran outside all by himself, paper sword and imagination in hand. But there was no help; no support. Actually, the man was enraged when Arthur had returned from the same place he was now.

The poet felt quite done with that stupid ultimatum.

But Alfred did not accuse him of anything, and all the harsh words that had come from the child's mouth were in simple truth and worry for a companion. That's how he knew Alfred cared. He was willing to speak the truth, even when it was not lovely and coded in roses and sugar. The dagger was picked out of the sunflower forest and given to the light of day, so Arthur would not trip over it later.

"I love you, Alfred."

Oops. Those words slipped easily as wetted soap.

"You mean a lot to me."

"What are you doing?" Those spectacled gazes touched to their guest. "You come here, already in love with someone else and you say that you love me? That's hardly fair, Arthur." Those brows were furrowing deeply. "Don't toy with me."

"You're right. And I'm sorry. But that damn Francis has been driving me up the wall and there's almost nothing I can do. He says he can't sleep when I'm not with him and my visits have become nothing but entire pains. He demands I lay down with him while he simply falls asleep; like I'm a drug or something. It's not-It's simply not healthy."

"No, it's not."

"And I feel horrible." Arthur simply went on speaking. "Because he allowed me to stay in his home when I was unwell, but that wasn't caused by a deficiency in Francis Bonfeuille; I was simply losing my mind for the sake of losing my mind. But Francis actually _needs _me, as ridiculous as that sounds- and I can hardly put up with it any longer. Oh, you should see him. He looks _horrible_, to add salt to the cut. Now I feel guilty for leaving even a short time. But Alfred, I can't _stay_ there. I simply can't."

"Well, perhaps it's time you put this to an end. Not much good is coming from this relationship any longer."

Arthur did not say anything.

"I'm sorry you're upset."

There was a deep sigh.

"You're a good friend." The Englishman closed his eyes. "I just don't know what to do any longer."

"Well…" Those words hacked and choked. "Arthur, when you said you loved me-how did you mean?"

Green gems melding with blue ones. "I mean I love you. You're good to me. And you don't throw a hissy fit every time I have to go. I think you'd be a much better lover at this point. You've given me far more support and far less shit."

"I'm your friend, Arthur. I couldn't call myself that unless I actually did something to show it."

Pause.

And another pause.

A pause between pauses.

Then one more pause.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes, Arthur. I do."

"And…And how do you feel about that?"

"It's awful."

"Loving me?"

"Yes. It's terrible." Those angelic blue eyes were watering. "You don't understand what it's like, to admire someone such a long time, and then you get to meet them. That was wonderful in itself. But not only do you get to meet them, but you become their friend, and your heart won't stop running when they're near. But they have obligations to fulfill with someone else. And not just any one else, but a handsome man with a wonderful accent. This person is so good at what he does, he can treat your dear friend horribly, and he won't even wake up to it. And you sit there, and you watch. Because it's all you _can_ do, even though your middle is twisting itself into frustrated knots the entire time. And you just want to sock that goddamn Frenchman in the mouth, but it's gotten to the point where your friend's happiness depends entirely upon that one person…" A breath. "It's unbearable. And now you're beginning to see this mess for what it really is and I still can't have you. I just-" Tears descended against those red cheeks.

"Oh Alfred, please don't cry." Arthur's worn fingers plucked away the sorrow, removing those shining glasses. "You're too strong for tears, right?"

That only caused the younger to sob, holding sweetly to Arthur's wrists.

"I love you."

"I love you too." That twisting mouth was given a slight touch from the poet's lips.

And the distraught creature managed to kiss back.

"I love you." Words were fighting vocal dejection.

"I love you too. See? Everything is alright…You don't have to be so upset."

Mounds smacking together on either side.

And it went on from there.

For the second week in a row, their taste buds embraced and their bodies were incredibly near. Warmth was given in exchange for warmth and poor Alfred's love was expressed in gentle hands and a needy throat. Palms adhered to necks, to legs, to backs. Just about everywhere, even though either remained clothed the entire visit.

Arthur left after all of that, promising to return next week as well.

And Francis watched. As he had been watching. He watched Arthur go in and come out an entire hour later, an off step controlling him and a slight bulge within those trousers.

Well, what would you assume?


	40. Chapter 40

The next day, another knock came to Alfred's door. It was short and certainly not sweet; merely quick. It occurred at night time, and a grand darkness descended upon that gorgeous city, shrouding it in a kind of off mystery.

The child residing inside came to that porthole and opened it, finding an angry Frenchman standing in place of any true guest.

The frame was almost shut once again, but was caught by the one standing outside it.

"Can I speak with you a moment?"

"Why would we bother with that, Francis? We both know you have absolutely nothing to say; you've only come to make trouble and give me a headache."

"Oh, I have plenty to say, Alfred."

"No-"

But before more words could drain, the actor was breaking his way in and locking the threshold behind him, in a seamless and fast motion. Alfred had no time to respond and Bonfeuille was coming at him, fists ready and rage boiling over as a pot of screaming water.

The first things to break were those shiny spectacles.

But they would certainly not be the last.

Alfred stumbled back, uncertain of how much glass had gotten into his eyes, and eventually found himself against the wall. Knuckles finding the softest spots of his stomach and exploiting them for all they were. A foot found Francis between the legs and the blinded American threw back what hits he could.

One landed against that horrendous French nose, another into that collarbone, covered by a loose red blouse. And another came to that center, right where Alfred was only just attacked.

"Just what in the hell are you doing?" A punch; a miss. "I'll call the police!"

"You'll do no such thing!" An ankle into the younger's bruised chest, knocking him right back wards. "You won't be able to do a damn thing once I'm finished with you!" And the corpse was lifted by the collar, sustaining a heavy blow to the cheek.

"Christ! _What's the matter with you?_" Alfred struggled, but to no avail. Francis had him, nearly sitting right on top of him, one fist raised in combat and the other tearing at the fine cloth covering that suddenly broken body.

And he had only answered the door because he suspected it could be his Englishman.

"Don't you go near my Arthur! I saw him come here yesterday! You're trying to steal him from me and I won't allow it!" The phrases came sputtering out in a mix of venomous French and English, as though the aggressor could not decide which tongue he wished to threaten in. _Anglais_, as it was, simply could not touch upon all those red-hot emotions sitting at the base of Francis' spine.

Oh no. The man was on fire and English was just too cold.

"I'm not going to steal him from you! He's simply going to leave you!"

"_Tais toi__!_" A heaving gasp. "You don't know a damn thing about Arthur! He would never leave me! You've just convinced him come to you, you rat! I could see it in your eyes the first time you came to my home!"

"Francis-!"

But that face was being submitted to a barrage of angry knuckles and even angrier cries. The refined gentleman, who had devoted so much of his time to art, had become a deranged animal. Feral cries tore from the back of his throat and scratched at the air with their mere presence.

And Alfred wouldn't admit it. After all, he was proud of his widely known bravery; but he was _terrified_. He took one uncertain look into those awful sapphires, drowning within tears of numerous sentiments, and knew that Francis had the capability to kill.

Perhaps he had not. Perhaps he had.

But he was well equipped and well ready.

Alfred, you have to get this man the hell off of you.

So, as an opportunity opened up, Alfred cast a fist into Francis' visage, landing a decent blow and taking the opportunity to rise from the floor.

But he didn't feel well.

He had accepted too many hard knocks to the head, and his knees were ready to drop from beneath him. He must have been bleeding. The hot essence could be felt rushing from his nose and onto his lips. He wiped his mouth. That plain white shirt held a terrible crimson stain.

And without anymore words, they were coming at one another again, kicks and fists and teeth flying in a fury all about the room. The American got a few good hits. The French man got a few good hits. Bruises layered either of them as sloppy splotches from a drunken paintbrush. Red spatters. Purple spatters. Blue spatters. All the colors that would soon turn to yellow and brown when the red dried and the sour spots began to fade.

Alfred was knocked upon his carpet and within a moment, Francis was on top of him, a knife drawn from his back pocket and pointed directly towards that vulnerable neck. Oh, it was so smooth and creamy; that flesh. No wonder why Arthur ran away.

But he would come back.

Oh, he would have no choice but to come back.

Alfred screamed.

"Shut your mouth! I swear to God, if you make one more sound, I'll slit your throat."

So Alfred remained quiet.

"You are never to see Arthur again. And if you do, I'll come back here and I'll finish the goddamn job." The tip of the blade pressed against the victim's hide, but no incision was made. "And you better not call the police. I've got a lot of friends in a lot of different places and you can bet you'll regret making that decision. _You'll wish I would have killed you_." That elbow dug a little deeper into Alfred's spine. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes." Panic laced every sound. "Yes, I understand."

"Good. Now, when everyone asks what exactly happened to you, what are you going to tell them?"

The only answer was rough breath.

"_What are you going to tell them?_"

"I-I got in a fight-at the bar-" Those eyes shut tight, fighting the pain. "I was completely drunk." Gasp.

"Good."

The knife drew away from Alfred's delicate neck and landed back into Francis' pocket.

He was gone before the other even got up.

After all of that, Alfred simply went into the bathroom, washed the blood from his face and took a long, hot bath. The steam soaked into his aching flesh and removed part of the panic that had set itself deeply into his very veins. Oh, how his entire body screamed.

Then, he wiped the tears from his sore cheeks and got out of that comforting vat, dried off and traveled into the kitchen, downing an entire bottle of the finest wine he owned. Then he drank another bottle of the cheap shit and went to sleep for a long, long time.


	41. Chapter 41

The morning after that terrible battle, Arthur came to his companion's home, hoping to speak about their last visit. Arthur was well aware that he had made plans for next weekend, but something was sitting at the very edge of his anxious tongue, and nothing would ease that horrendous temptation. The only thing the poor man could do was yield to it.

One knock. Two knocks. Three knocks.

Then came the patience.

But there was no pay-off for that virtue.

So the process was repeated; still nothing.

On any other day, Arthur might have gone back and simply returned at a later time, with a gift of some sort and a smile drenching those usually unhappy lips. However, something at the base of his stomach shook, and told the man that something here was horrendously _wrong_. Nothing about this seemed right. Even from the outside, the entire apartment had a surprising evil to it, a kind of aura the poet would have never associated with such a place.

So, that polite palm turned the knob and Arthur allowed himself in, knowing that he would not be thrown out for trespassing.

The blood spots layering the floor and the walls came directly to his attention. They did not wait to begin screaming; they had simply been hollering since their application.

And as expected, the uninvited guest began to worry, without any thought put to it.

"Alfred?"

The kitchen was empty.

As were the bathrooms. Only a tub laced in an unsettling pink.

The bedroom was checked.

"Alfred?"

Oh thank God.

He was right there, sleeping. That face was well broken, but the man was _breathing_.

"Alfred?"

"No-" Well, actually the child was not quite so fortunate. He was well hung over and rolling upon painful coils. Those busted gazes flashed over to the author and then to the ceiling, as though nothing could be worse than a visit from his most favored person. "You have to go."

"Why would I do that? Look at you! What happened?"

A greedy sip at oxygen. "Nothing. Just a fight."

"Well, obviously! It's not like you did this to yourself. For Christ's sake, Alfred, there's blood on the walls and floor!"

"Please, not so loud. Listen, I just got in a fight. One of my friends came back and…" Oh, Alfred could not even finish. "We had too much to drink. But you need to leave."

"What does a stupid fight have to do with either of us? Do you simply not want me here?"

No answer.

"Alfred!"

"No. It's not that. I simply-" Those lips coiled, emotion derived from both pain and heartache. "I can't see you any longer. Please, just go."

"Why can't-"

Oh.

"Did Francis do this to you?"

"Arthur please…" Those poor and beautiful eyes were red. They closed as tears welled at their edges and boiled over onto the pillow. Yes. Of course Francis had done this. That's why Alfred did not bother furiously denying it.

The Englishman came closer to his nearest friend and moved the sheets aside, casting a glance to his ruined body, the coming scars and the puckering marks. That damned man had taken an angel and torn him into bits, yet there was no taking back these wounds.

"He did do this to you, didn't he?"

Alfred grasped at the air floating just before him. "Francis told me he'd kill me if I didn't stay away from you. So you have to go."

The poet stood there in simple disbelief, wishing that none of this was true and finding great trouble in accepting it. There was a great plate of razors stacked before him, and he was required to eat every last one of them. They hurt to simply pick up.

No forks included.

Instead of leaving, Arthur placed a kiss on the boy's forehead, flesh Francis had not ruined, and took a place next to the shattered creature between those sheets. Gentle arms came around him, holding that figure in all the places he could tolerate and lying small kisses about that reddened ear.

"Do you really want me to leave, Alfred? I'll go. But I'll stay for an hour or so and help you. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No." There was still sorrow occurring within the American's sore throat.

"Then I'll make you breakfast. And I'll bandage your wounds. Do you have any gauze?"

"Yes." Hard breath. "It's in the kitchen. The third drawer next to the stove."

"Alright."

So Arthur went and he made his new lover scrambled eggs, one of the few things he could actually cook, and then brought back with him a handsome plate and even handsomer bandages. Alfred sat up. He accepted the disinfectant, and he took those make-shift patches and tape with a kind of gratefulness he had only felt in childhood.

There was only relaxation after that.

That was all Mr. Kirkland would allow.

Then, the writer left that stained apartment and went back into the streets.

He knew where he was going.

It was the very same place he usually went, but with happier business. Today, there would be no joyous affair. There would be no love making.

There would only be a Frenchman with broken bones to match his broken heart.


	42. Chapter 42

Arthur, who had walked near to Francis' door, decided simply to wait. There was a certainty within his blood that they would fight; a grand part of him could not allow the man to get away with damaging Alfred so badly.

The coming scars burned themselves into the poet's thoughts. With every step toward his own home, there was a flash of heavy blue or hideous purple and nothing could wash these images away. Well. Perhaps a bit of blood from dear Francis would help.

Arthur had bought a switchblade and tucked it into his pocket, knowing that things could certainly get violent incredibly quickly. He was no fool. Francis was not a weak adversary. Those well toned muscles had been seen numerous times before; they had been touched and licked and Arthur knew them inside and out.

There was no intention to kill the actor.

But Arthur wasn't going to accept his friend's wounds with a shimmering smile either.

It was eight o' clock when Arthur left for that glittering home he used to inhabit. And with each step against those dim streets, his heart seemed to race faster and faster. One step. Another twist to his crux. Another step. The damn thing burst.

Arthur kept one hand in his pocket, wrapping it around his new and unused knife. It really was a lovely weapon. His fingers could not stop tracing over the handle and its moving pattern of checkerboard. There was even a _fleur de lys_ in the center of it.

What a strange knife he had bought.

But it was sharp. And that's all he needed.

Arthur arrived at that looming doorstep, just as the sun had collapsed beneath the mountains and the day was undoubtedly over. Twilight had gone and died and the stars were looking down over the entire city. How lovely it all was.

_Breathe_.

Arthur's chest calmed, if only slightly.

Then the door knob was turned, its happy color becoming old and even somewhat rusty.

The entire house was dark; there was no Francis to be seen and the place had gone terribly quiet. It was the sort of foreboding Arthur felt while standing outside his friend's apartment just today. But worse. This mess was far more tangled.

A light was turned on. Still, the whole place was empty.

Arthur knew Francis was home. He was not acting as much as he used to, selecting to perform in plays only twice a week. Tonight was one of his nights designated home. Arthur knew this. He wouldn't have come if the man was not _supposed_ to be here.

Instead of moving upstairs, the man moved into the parlor, where he was certain he would find his adversary. Running into the dragon's keep. How badly would Mr. Kirkland be burned?

The second set of lights came on.

Oh look. You found him, Arthur.

Francis looked directly at his intruder, a soft and stupid smile about those broken lips. It was not only Alfred who had been damaged. There were a few decent hits set against Francis' flesh as well. It made him look even worse. Beforehand, those pretty blue eyes were simply drooping in a puddle of grey accompanied by a dry mouth and half dead expression. But now, those features were even worse, layered with cuts and dried blood. Something slightly ruined before had been thrown from a window and set on fire.

The Frenchman looked to the millions of paintings set upon his wall.

"Why don't you ask what happened to my face?"

Arthur remained silent, but only for a moment. "I already know what happened; I saw Alfred today."

A bit of rage burned within those fried blue wells.

"I saw what you did to him. And no, he didn't come to me. I went there to pay a visit."

"I've asked you specifically not to go over there."

"I know that. I simply got tired of living under your nonsense. He's my friend after all."

"_Friend?_" Disgust writhed about that marred visage. "You slept with him. I saw you leave that place as you leave my home after a good night of love making. Don't think I'm not aware."

"Firstly, we did no such thing." Arthur's hands were quivering. "And even if we did, Alfred was the wrong person to damage. You should have come for me; I was the one who went over there, even after you told me not to, like you said. There are better ways to deal with your problems, Francis."

"Yes, but this way is effective enough. Tell me, was he horrified?"

Arthur shook with disgust. "What in the bloody hell is wrong with you? Did you honestly think I wouldn't find him at some point? Did you think I would approve?" Fists clenched. "That I would be _happy_ you damaged my only friend and come running back as though you had done something worthwhile? If anything, you've only given me motivation to never come here again!"

Francis rose, his face was still and silent for a very long duration. "You're leaving me?"

Arthur did not reply.

"Oh, please Arthur. I'm sorry-I'll do anything. Just please, don't go." Francis came nearer to his former lover, but no mercy was given. That stance was merely held, and that Englishman was ready to pop him in the jaw if one more step was taken.

"Arthur you don't understand. I did this for _you_."

Another click against the floor by fine shoes. That promise was kept and a fist was thrown into that already tarnished expression. Bonfeuille fell right on his ass.

"I don't want you to do anything for me! You could have spoken to me about this; you didn't need to go and harm someone else!"

Francis got up slowly and regarded his past lover, an expression of hurt and pain and anger strewn all about his ragged face. His shoulders were shaking, as though he was ready to either explode or cry or both at the very same time.

Francis charged at Arthur for the blow that he had received, only to have an ankle dressed in a fine and weighty heel plunging into his center. It knocked him backward and Arthur came right back in with a few knuckles to the chest, then to the face, and finally, a sweep to those ankles.

Again, Francis found himself on the floor, even sorer than he was beforehand.

The writer took a moment to regard the blood that had been placed against his knuckles.

The actor began to weep.

"I won't come back here again, Francis. Not after what you've done."

"_Non!_" A wail. "Please! I promise; I'll never do something like that again!"

"It doesn't matter what you _will_ do; what matters is what you _did_ do. I don't trust you anymore; you're losing your goddamn mind and harming others. I can't stay with someone who solves his problems by attempting to kill them. It's possible I could be the one in Alfred's situation one day; _who knows with you?_"

"That's hardly fair! You get to go off and sleep around while I'm good to you and I get nothing at all! You care more for Alfred than you do me!" Tears dropping. "You've never cared for me!"

"That's not true! Of course I cared for you! But do you honestly think I'm going to stay with someone who harms another so badly? You must assume I'm a fool!"

There was a silence.

Arthur turned his back to leave.

But Francis managed to spring forward and landed a decent hit to the back of Arthur's head. He just about fell forward, stumbling over clumsy feet and trying to regain a balance he had only just possessed.

No time was wasted and the Englishman turned around, striking his opposite in the same manner he had just struck him. But there was a difference. Arthur did not stop. He simply moved forward as Francis moved back and sent pain wailing throughout that entire body. Stomach. Face. Neck. Collar. Everywhere those beaten knuckles could find skin to bruise and bone to break.

Eventually, Francis fell over.

Arthur lifted him by the collar of that fine blouse, now soaked in either of their crimson.

"You leave me alone!" Shake. "Do you hear that? You leave me alone; you leave Alfred alone! I never want to see your face again!" Drop.

For a fleeting few seconds, Arthur watched that writhing man, with all his stains and moans. There was red and purple left all over his once handsome face. Now that the beauty had been torn into fleshy pulp, the poet could see the man for what he really was; nothing but a desperate loon. Those gorgeous lips were battered and every part of him seemed to hold a hideous quality- from those sunken in eyes to the lines of crimson running from his nose.

This relationship was unhealthy.

Because now that the prince had been turned into the troll, the truth was obvious.

Francis did not care for Arthur. He never helped him, truly. He never assisted in his recovery. He never told the real truth. Everything was a mess of lies and pretty white drapes made to hide the war going on outside.

There was even a flash of deep pity for the one caught against those harsh boards, spitting up cuts and trying to see through black eyes.

"Good-bye, Francis. _Adieu._"

And that home, full of those terrifying paintings was left, and Arthur went home, to write all the sentiments his heart blossomed with.

Yes. It was over now.

It was done.


	43. Chapter 43

For a few days after that terrible event, Arthur did not bother leaving his home. He simply sat in his empty front room and wrote down all the thoughts that occurred within his mind. It was a distraction; uncertainty stood just outside his thoughts, and every time he turned, there was that monster, smiling, waiting ever so patiently to be addressed.

Had the right thing been done? Had justice been served to the correct person? There was even some guilt to the entire affair, but it was so convoluted and mangled, Arthur was not sure that the label upon its brow was right. Guilt? Was that what this was?

And the Saturday after that battle, a knock came upon Arthur's door.

Of course, it was answered.

"Oh, Alfred." There was a bit of surprise. Arthur never remembered telling the boy where his new apartment was, however, it was possible the information was given out and the poet was not even aware. That seemed to happen to him quite frequently since moving to Paris. Oh, I told you that? I don't remember even mentioning it.

Scatter brain.

"How are you doing? Is it Saturday?"

He also seemed to lose track of time.

"Yes, Arthur." Those kindly blue eyes held something troubling within them. "Francis killed himself."

Those words did not even register.

"Wait, _what?_ What do you mean?"

"A few days ago he lost his mind and tore up everything within his home; the furniture, the paintings, hell-even the windows. Then he drank poison and was found dead shortly after. Of course, he had made quite a bit of noise, so the police were alerted."

Arthur's heart was sinking into his stomach, burning up in the acid and causing his entire body to come to flames.

"How do you know all of this?"

"One of my colleges is writing a story about his death. I thought I should tell you." Alfred paused a moment. "They also found his face to be beaten. Far worse than it had been when I saw him last…Do you know anything about that, Arthur?"

"Oh, I know everything about it." Those thick brows dropped several stories as the fading bruises against the child's skin were fading. He simply couldn't allow Francis to get away with what he had done. But he didn't want the man to kill himself.

Why had he done it? Had Arthur simply tarnished his beauty to the point of no return, or could he simply not live without a lover? Had Francis Bonfeuille needed his writer so horribly?

Arthur was simply dumbstruck.

And all in a few seconds, that grief hit like a mallet, along with the realization that this entire mess was his fault.

He needed to sit down.

"Oh, Alfred. What have I done?" The man slumped against the side of the wall, looking up into the ceiling, asking God for guidance. But none came and the loss made itself present upon Arthur's cheeks. "What have I done?"

Alfred came nearer behind a closed door and took a spot next to his dejected friend, wrapping arms around him and laying a kiss upon his wetted cheek.

"Arthur, this isn't your fault." Their temples touched softly. "Listen; people like Francis are ticking time bombs. How could you be expected to stay with someone who was so dangerous? If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else. Perhaps he simply couldn't deal with the loss of a lover and figured life wasn't worth living without you. But you didn't decide that. You didn't stuff the poison into his mouth, did you?"

"No! Heavens no!" Those coming droplets were wiped and soaking green eyes met their opposite. "Alfred, all I did was knock him around. I didn't break anything inside that home, nor did I know anything about the poison. I couldn't kill anyone." A gasp. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

And they sat there for what felt like an eternity as Arthur wept with that sweet American trying desperately to soothe him. Kisses were placed and those arms never truly moved from the distraught one's form.

Eventually, they moved into the bedroom and Arthur lied upon the sheets, with Alfred at his side.

When he finally ceased that wailing, sleep took over him, as though he was possessed by it. It was the drug to the horrendous pain surging through every chamber of his heart. And Alfred served as the bandages.

Somewhere inside logic, Arthur knew this was not entirely his fault. Alfred was correct; how could he go on with someone so deranged? There was not a choice left for him, especially after he had whipped Alfred into a pulp.

Could anyone be committed to such a monster?

Yet, the fact that he was gone, never to take a single breath again, stabbed Arthur right in the chest. He did feel somewhat responsible, even if he was not responsible at all. But Arthur did not know how much of a hand he had played within Francis Bonfeuille's death.

So, instead of tearing his hair out, the English man merely feel into a troubled sleep, hoping desperately this stinking reality would fade after those sights reopened. He knew it wouldn't. But the dreams helped eradicate some of those terrible wounds, coming onto his flesh like leprosy.

And his darling companion did not leave his side.


	44. Epilogue

Arthur decided he ought to go back to London. Paris had brought him enough trouble, and his writer's block had been cured. He had enough of the guilt weighing upon his back for his dead actor, despite Alfred's kindly reassurances, and his French was just fine. All of it had seemed to come back. It must have been sitting at the back of his mind, waiting to be refreshed.

And he told Alfred this, who was now openly and madly in love with him.

"So you're going back to London?" The boy's expression held such a wretched sadness, Arthur could hardly take it.

"Yes, I am. But I wanted to tell you that you're welcome to come with me. I actually have a very nice home over there, if you can believe that. I'll certainly help you get started, if you're willing to come. I truly wouldn't mind allowing you to stay with me. After all, that house is horrendously lonesome with only one person inside it."

"Arthur, that's a big decision."

"Oh, come now. I'll even help you find a job. I think I'm going to have a new book of poems to publish anyway, so that leaves plenty of time open to show you around and get you acquainted with all the old buildings and what-not." There was a grin. "If you can get a job as a writer in France, there should be no problem with getting a job as a writer in England, especially considering the fact that English is your first language. Besides, Americans have become quite fashionable lately. You'd be surprised."

"Well…" Alfred was getting a little tired of Paris himself. Of course, he could always visit if he pleased; England was just next to France. Not to mention, seeing a new place and being with this man he had adored for so very long.

He did not have to think all too hard.

A few days after the proposition, Alfred decided to tag along.

So the men left for London, taking trains and getting on boats and watching as the sea moved around their vessel in an excited froth. They stood next to one another beneath the sky, watching as day turned to night, with stars lacing that pot of dark ink. It was entirely too beautiful.

While no one was looking, Arthur snuck a kiss against his darling's face.

It then occurred to him how strange this entire mess had been. He had gone to France; fell in love with a Frenchman, then fell in love with an American. In France. What a strange place to find an American anyway. Or at least, a strange place to fall in _love _with an American.

It simply told the man that this was meant to be. He could feel it in the base of his very crux. Arthur did not wish to be too rash, but he could not help but feel certain. After all, sentiments were not something that could be placed upon a leash and commanded to sit. They were far too wild and deaf.

And for a moment, as that darkened sky was taken in, Arthur thought of Francis. No, there was not so much salt to the wound any longer. Yes, a sprinkle, but not an entire pile as there was before hand. Arthur could only feel sorry for the man, because he _had_ killed himself. Part of him wished that it could have been prevented, but Alfred was right. The moment that 'love of his life' left him, the ticking time bomb would have gone off. Arthur simply had the misfortune of sitting next to it as it did.

_Poor Francis Bonfeuille._

_With his curling hair _

_And lucid sapphires _

_That hypnotize _

_How hard it must be _

_To be so handsome _

_And so rejected _

_At the same moment _

_The gorgeous peacock _

_No one wants to look at _

Arthur could only manage to feel sorry for the man. Because he really wasn't such a horrible person; he had simply lost his mind in the hot pink vat of sugared love. Just as Arthur had. But his symptoms were merely different.

However, something was learned from this train wreck. Living with too much logic, or too much sentiment was simply a stupid way to be. Arthur had been so unhappy before, thinking merely pragmatically; but he traded that for an unhappiness made of no thought what-so-ever, and merely the ringing of his heart. And when he found either of these methods to be malformed and far too tangled, he also found an American boy, waiting politely at the sidelines. He was simply wondering when Arthur would snap to it.

Yes. Lonesomeness came from his logic. And Francis came from his heart. But Alfred was a mix of either of those two worlds, telling him the clear truth and loving him at the same moment.

That was why he was so certain. This relationship- unlike the two beforehand- was stable. And Arthur was happy. Truly and shamelessly happy.

He kissed Alfred upon the cheek once more and either went back into their cabin.

The rose had died, and in its dust arose a sunflower.


End file.
